4 





















AETICLE 47 


A ROMANCE. 


FROM THE FRENCH 


BELOT. 


BY 

JAMES FURBISH. 
\ 




PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
1 873 . 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by 
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 


2ii. COPY 
SUPPLIED FROM 
COPYRIGHT FILES 
4ANÜARY. \9\U 


Lippincott’s Press, 
Philadelphia. 



*.;5 7 






ARTICLE 47 


PART I.-THE GIRL OE COLOR 


Z. 

The young man who ten years ago was 
discharging the duties of porter and watch- 
man in the Admiralty Hotel at Havre had 
but just risen and opened the large door 
of the hotel facing Marine Wharf, when he 
heard his name called under the vestibule, 
at the foot of the large staircase. 

Being astonished that an inmate of the 
hotel was up at this early hour, — hardly 
six o’clock, — he hastened to answer the 
call, and found himself in the presence of 
a lady of some fifty years of age, and of 
respectable appearance. She had on a 
traveling shawl, a bonnet of the simplest 
kind, but elegant in form, and held in her 
hand a Russia leather valise, which an 
English merchant had just brought into 
fashion. 

“ Did madame call?” said the porter. 

“Yes, my friend; I would like to speak 
to the proprietor of the house.” 

“ But he is asleep, madame.” 

“ The same reply was made when I ar- 
rived last night. I wish to obtain certain 
information from him.” 

“ I can give it to the lady, no doubt, if 
she would ” 

“ From what quarter do the ships ar- 
rive ?” 

“ From the sea.” 

“Evidently,” said the lady, smiling; 
“ but where is the sea f” 

“ If madame will follow me,” said the 
porter, “ I will show it to her.” 


They passed from under the vestibule 
through the door on to the wharf, near 
the landings .of Honfleur, Trouville, and 
Caen steamers. 

“ The sea is away ofi* there,” said the 
porter, pointing to the right. “ You can- 
not see it now, because it is' hid by the 
masts of the ships, smoke-stacks of steam- 
ers, and the tower of Francis I., but by 
going a few steps along the wharf ” 

“ Very well, thank you. And can you 
tell me,” said she, “ if the Zurich has 
arrived at Havre ?” 

“The Zurich? Don’t know her,” said 
the porter. “ Is it a ship ?” 

“An American sailing-ship, from New 
Orleans.” 

“ I cannot inform the lady.” 

“ I feared as much, and that is exactly 
the reason why I wanted to talk with the 
proprietor of the hotel.” 

“ My master knows no more about it 
than I do,” said the porter, bridling up. 

“ Who can give me this information, if 
you please?” 

“ The first seafaring man you meet. 
Hold! that old gentleman yonder, smok- 
ing a cigar in front of India Hotel ; he is 
a retired sea-captain, and knows by heart 
all the vessels which enter the basin.” 

“I will speak to him. Thank you, 
friend.” 

She was about going to speak to the 
man pointed out, when the watchman or 
porter through curiosity, or desirous of 
complying with the rigid instructions 
3 


4 


ARTICLE Jiï. 


given by the Havre police.%egged her to 
be kind enough to return to the hotel and 
write her name in the register. She 
hastened to comply with the request, and 
the porter was able to read over her 
shoulder, — 

“Madame Du Hamel, widow, Paris. 
Verneuil Street, No. 32.” 

Madame then left the Admiralty Hotel, 
and was on her w'ay to speak with the 
captain. 

The latter, with that politeness which 
characterizes most seafaring men, on see- 
ing approach a woman who appeared to 
belong to the better class of society, lifted 
his hat and bowed politely. 

“ Sir,” said Madame Du Hamel on ap- 
proaching him, “ the porter of my hotel 
assures me that you can give me some in- 
formation which would be valuable to me 
at this time, and I take the liberty of in- 
terrupting you in your promenade.” 

“ You have done right, madame ; and 
if I can be of any service to you — pray 
what is your wish?” 

“ I would like to know, sir, if the 
Zurich has arrived at Havre within two or 
three days?” 

“No, madame, I can assure you she has 
not entered the port, and that she is not 
yet signalized. Do you expect any one, 
madame ?” 

“Yes, sir; my only son, whom I have 
not seen for six years.” 

She uttered these words in such a tone 
of voice that the captain was quite capti- 
vated. 

At first, he thought he might be talk- 
ing with one of those curious women 
whom the railroads bring every day to 
Havre, and who overwhelm with ques- 
tions the sailors who are unfortunate 
enough to fall in their way. But no, it 
was a mother who was questioning him; 
a mother, anxious no doubt as to the fate 
of her child. The situation was changed : 
she became interesting ; and the captain, 
throwing away his cigar, gave to under- 
stand by this sacrifice that he was entirely 
at her service. 


“ The last letter I received from my 
son,” said Madame Du Hamel, “ was dated 
the 10th of May, informing me that he 
should embark the next day. This letter 
came to hand more than fifteen days ago, 
and I began to be so uneasy that I deter- 
mined to come to Havre to wait for the 
arrival of the Zurich.” 

“ You have no occasion to be anxious, 
madame. Your letter has been one week 
in coming from New Orleans to New 
York, and twelve days from New York to 
Paris by steamer. As to the Zurich, 
which is a sailing vessel, she requires at 
least from thirty-five to forty days to go 
from New Orleans to France. Observe 
that I say at least. Passages have been 
known to last from sixty to seventy days.” 

“ Ah, bless me ! have I to wait a month 
longer ?” 

“ It is not probable. The Zurich is an 
excellent sailer, which, in good weather, 
makes her ten or twelve knots an hour, 
just like a steamer. She is, besides, 
commanded by a first-rate captain, and if 

he left on the 18th of May ” 

“ He may arrive at any moment, may 
he not?” said Madame Du Hamel. 

“ Undoubtedly ; but if he has met with 
contrary winds, or a calm, which is not 

rare at this season of the year ” 

“ Oh, no, sir ; don’t tell me that ! I 
had rather wait. Ah, if you but knew 
how I long to embrace him !” 

Her eyes watered and her voice trem- 
bled. Suddenly she said, — 

“ Something tells me that he must ar- 
rive soon, perhaps even this very day. I 
should not be so much agitated if he were 
far away from me. The heart of a mother 
is never mistaken ! Since he left me he 
has often been in danger. Well, I was in- 
formed of it without any one’s writing to 
me about it. Yes, I saw him when he was 
sick ; I saw him when he was wounded. 
I sufiered, though three thousand miles 
away, at the very moment that he was 
suffering. There exist, you must under- 
stand, mysterious ties and sympathies be- 
tween a mother and her son. But to-day. 


THE GIRL OF COLOR. 


5 


on the contrary, I feel my heart rejoiced, 
and life seems to me beautiful. It is be- 
cause he is happy and well. It is because 
he is coming, he is coming, the dear 
child!” 

The old sailor listened to her in silence, 
and looked at her with pleasure. He had 
forgotten the slightly gray hair and the 
few wrinkles and folds here and there 
upon the face of her who was talking with 
him. He saw only her gracious smile, 
her charming teeth, and her eyes still 
young and expressive. He was under the 
charm of that distinguished and honest 
demeanor, that sympathetic voice full of 
irresistible tenderness. 

She was not aware of the sentiment 
she was inspiring, and returning suddenly 
to herself, she said, — 

“ Ah ! pardon me, sir, for thus annoy- 
ing you.” 

“How can you say that, madame?” 
replied he, feelingly. “ I have children 
at this moment afloat on distant and dan- 
gerous seas.” 

She made no reply, but showed that 
she was a woman of heart, and extended 
to him her hand. Did there not exist be- 
tween them a secret affinity ? Had they 
not the same fears and hopes? 


II. 

Madame Du Hamel had no longer any 
fear of being indiscreet with the guide 
that chance had given her. He had pro- 
posed to escort her down to the landing 
and point out to her the course the Zurich 
must take in order to enter the port of 
Havre. She had accepted, and after fol- 
lowing Marine AVharf and crossing Mu- 
seum Square, they talked awhile about 
the unimproved grounds along by the Hô- 
tel Frascati and thence to the landing. 

“ So then, captain, you laugh at my 
presentiments 5 you don’t admit that my 
son may arrive to-day?” 


“We sailors,” said he, “are always a 
little superstitious ; and I am tempted to 
allow myself to be convinced by you. But 
it has just struck seven, it is high water 
at ten, and the Zurich is not yet signal- 
ized.” 

“ How do you know?” 

“ Her name would be written on the 
board attached to the signal tower.” 

“Then we must no longer hope,” said 
she, with a sigh. 

“ I dare not encourage you, — and yet — 
if I am not mistaken, they are making at 
this moment a signal from Cape Hève. 
Please wait a moment, madame, and I will 
be with you again.” 

He went off in the direction of the sig- 
nal tower, passed through the gate which 
protects this important post from public 
curiosity, and disappeared for a moment, 
to reappear soon on the circular platform, 
which serves as an observatory to the 
watchmen of the post. 

Madame du Hamel saw him exchange 
some words with the sailor in uniform, 
who, for a moment, had already been oc- 
cupying the circular platform ; then, after 
consulting the horizon by the aid of a tel- 
escope, saw him again descend the ladder 
of the tower and advance towards his 
companion. 

“ Well,” said she. 

“ Nothing yet positive, but there are 
chances. I would bet something now on 
your game.” 

“ Oh, captain ! in order to talk to me in 
this way, you must have a good deal of 
hope. Tell me the whole*, I am strong 
and can bear it ; come I Don’t be afraid 
of inspiring hopes that will not be real- 
ized. If we are mistaken, it shall be for 
to-morrow, or day after to-morrow. I will 
wait.” 

“Yes, yes, I understand that. I Have 
been in that state of mind myself,” said 
the old sailor, in an under-tone. “ You are 
getting it into your head that it is he ; 
and if it is not he, you will be in despair.” 

“ No, no 5 tell me, I beg of you !” ' 

“Well, a sail has just been signalized 


6 


ARTICLE ^7. 


yonder in the direction of the open sea ; 
it is a large vessel, a three-master, and an 
American.” 

“ Are any other American vessels ex- 
pected in Havre about this time?” asked 
she. 

“ They expect the Florida, the Winfield 
Scott, and the United States. Only one of 
these vessels is a three-masted bark (and 
that which we perceive yonder is a three- 
master of at least twelve hundred tons) ; 
the other is a brig 5 and the third so bad 
a sailer that she cannot possibly arrive 
before the Zurich, although she left three 
days before her.” 

“ But then, captain ” 

“ Then, madame, be calm ; and in half 
an hour, a quarter perhaps ” 

“ Calm, calm ! Ah, sir 1 what is that you 
say? Andin order to be settled as re- 
gards my fate, shall I be obliged to wait 
till the name Zurich is written upon that 
little board you have shown me?” 

‘‘ No, madame ; I am going up there 
again on the platform where you have 
already seen me, and as soon as I shall 
know anything for certain you will be 
informed.” 

“Ah, captain, how many thanks ! To 
thvnk^ that if I had not met you ” 

“All right, all right,” said the captain, 
while going-, “you can thank me here- 
after.” 

Two minutes had not passed when he 
appeared again on the top of the signal 
tower. 

Anxious and restless, she followed 
every movement, and tried to catch the 
sense of his least motion. 

Suddenly, after pointing for a long 
while his telescope to one point of the 
horizon, he took off his hat and swung it 
in the air. She understood it. 

That motion meoxvi victoi'y ! your pre- 
sentiments were well founded ! It is the 
Zurich ! It is your son ! 

She became quite pale. Her limbs 
failed her. It was with difficulty she was 
able to sit down upon the parapet of the 
wharf. 


When, a moment after, the captain re- 
joined her, she was weeping profusely. 

“ Come, come,” said he, “ don’t give up 
to that. I understand this feeling : one 
can bear great sorrows without shedding 
a tear, but is overcome by excessive joy.” 

“ So it is in reality the Zurich?” said 
she, smiling on the captain through her 
tears. 

“ Oh, this time there is no mistake ; I 
know my Zurich among fifty vessels.” 

She interrupted him in these words : 

“ But if he is not on board?” 

“Ah, I expected you would come to that ! 
That’s it, that’s exactly it ! Just now the 
whole thought was on the vessel : will 
she come, or will she not come? She 
comes. You should be at the height of 
happiness, and have no more fear. Not 
at all. You tremble anew. Is the list of 
passengers complete ? Has nothing hap- 
pened to them during the passage? How 
natural is that, and how well I recognize 
myself, when I am expecting my sons !” 

She listened to him no longer, but led 
him away to the end of the landing, in 
the direction of the light-house, and en- 
deavored to pierce the horizon. 

“ Do you see anything?” said the cap- 
tain, smiling. 

“ Nothing.” 

“ She is quite perceptible, however, 
now. See, yonder. No, you are not right. 
You are looking in the direction of the 
river for Caen. Here, follow my finger. 
That’s it. In a minute you will see her 
better. The fog is being dissipated with 
the rising tide; the wind is rising and 
dispersing the clouds. That diable of a 
Zurich, with her spread of sails, and the 
good breeze she has in the offing, will be 
able to enter the harbor this very day.” 

“ How !” exclaimed she, tremblingly, 
“have you any doubt on the subject?” 

“ Why, yes, — if she misses the tide ; 
she has only two hours before her.” 

“ And then what?” 

“She would be obliged to cast anchor 
in the roadstead, or stand to the windward, 
till to-morrow’s tide.” 


TEE GIRL OF COLOR. 


7 


“ Dear mel” 

“But be of good cheer. Everything 
looks favorable. The wind freshens again. 
Two hours will be sufficient for the Zu- 
rich to enter the port, and I see yonder 
a large tow-boat all ready to go for her, 
if the wind should happen to lull. And 
what are you going to do with yourself 
during these two hours?” 

“ Do you ask ? I don’t quit the wharf. 
What would you do if one of your sons 
were aboard this ship?” 

“ I should wait.” 

“ No doubt you would. But I am 
taking up too much of your time, captain. 
Please resume your liberty, and believe 
me when I tell you that I am under infi- 
nite obligations to you for the kindness 
you have shown me since the morning.” 

“ I leave you, madame, but do not bid 
you adieu. I shall return to you the 
moment the Zurich enters the port, and 
will be at your service if you shall wish 
to go on board.” 

“Oh, yes, certainly, thank you. He 
does not dream of my presence in Havre, 
and I wish to surprise him.” 

The old sailor retired in the direction 
t)f Paris Street, and Madame Du Hamel 
remained on the wharf, with her eyes 
fixed upon the ship, whose elevated hull 
and elegant masts were beginning to be 
distinctly seen. 


III- 

As the captain had foreseen, at ten 
o’clock in the morning, without the assist- 
ance of a tow-boat, the Zurich was seen 
entering the port of Havre. 

' There is nothing more majestic, and 
at the same time more exciting, than the 
arrival of a large ship which has just ac- 
complished a long voyage. The dangers 
she has incurred, and the bad weather 
she has experienced, are legibly written 
upon her strained and often torn canvas. 


on her sometimes broken masts, and upon 
her hull, whose colors, so brilliant on de- 
par^re, have been tarnished or effaced by 
the continual dashing of the waves. 

Therefore, at high water, the wharf is 
the favorite promenade of the inhabitants 
of Havre. As soon as it is known in the 
city that a steamer of the Transatlantic 
Company, or a large sailing ship, has just 
been signalized, everybody starts for the 
wharf ; and soon the landing-places, ordi- 
narily deserted at low water, become as 
lively as Paris .Street. 

The captain, who two hours before had 
left Madame Du Hamel in a sort of soli- 
tude, had some difficulty in finding her ; 
but he soon rejoined her, as he had’ prom- 
ised. 

“ Well, madame,” said he, on approach- 
ing her, “ you are now happy. In a few 
minutes your son will pass before you.” 

“Will he pass near enough for me to 
be able to see him ?” asked she. 

“ Certainly. You will see him for a 
moment as plainly as I see you.” 

“Dear heart!” said she, with a sigh. 
“ Shall I recognize him, among all the 
people who will be on deck? It is so 
long since I saw him ! He was hardly 
twenty when he left me, and he is now 
more than twenty-five.” 

“ Look, look !” said the captain ; “ the 
Zurich is coming directly towards us.” 

There was no need of giving this advice ; 
she was looking with all her eyes and 
all her heart. 

In the fore part of the ship the sailors 
were variously occupied in obeying orders 
given by the officers. Near the mizzen- 
mast was a crowd of passengers, saluting 
with hand and handkerchief friends whom 
they thought they recognized in the dis- 
tance. In the after part of the ship were 
to be seen the captain, pilot, and mate, a 
woman with her bonnet on all ready to 
go ashore, two passengers of about fifty 
years of age, and a young man of about 
twenty-five, leaning against the mizzen- 
mast shrouds and smoking a cigar. 

For a minute, Madame Du Hamel, un- 


8 


ARTICLE Iff. 


able to stand, had taken the arm of her 
companion. Suddenly, when the stern of 
the Zurich was just abreast of her, she 
uttered a shriek. 

“Did you recognize him?” said the 
captain. 

“Yes, yes; there he is!” 

She designated the young man leaning 
against the shrouds, and being no longer 
conscious of where she was, she made signs 
with her handkerchief, sent kisses to him 
through space, and smiled and wept, half 
crazy with happiness. 

But he who thought his mother was at 
Paris could not suspect that all this pan- 
tomime was directed to him. 

The Zurich had passed the wharf, and 
was now slowly advancing towards the 
custom-house dock. The visitors, as if 
the curtain had dropped and the show was 
over, had left the scene and were on their 
way to Paris Street. 

Madame Du Hamel alone remained, as 
if fixed to the spot, thinking only of one 
man, her beloved son. 

“ Madame,” said the captain, “ are you 
going on board?” 

“Onboard? yes!” exclaimed she; “I 
wish to embrace him and press him to my 
heart.” She had taken the captain’s arm 
and was hastening away in the direction 
the Zurich had taken. When they came 
up with her, she had just stopped at the 
place which had been temporarily assigned 
her. Two large ships separated her from 
the wharf, but their decks, across which 
planks had been laid, put the Zurich in 
direct communication with the wharf. 

Already a crowd of people had rushed 
on board the newly-arrived vessel ; friends 
and relatives of the captain, clerks of the 
owner, policemen, custom-house officers, 
hotel boys, and commissioners of all sorts 
ofiering their services to the passengers. 

On the wharf were coachmen and hand- 
cart men, and hundreds of curious people 
looking on. Everywhere was noise and 
confusion. 

The captain was about deciding to cut 
his way through the crowd in order to go 


on board, when he thought he recognized 
in a boat leaving the Zurich and approach- 
ing the wharf the young man whom 
Madame Du Hamel had designated as her 
son. In his eagerness to quit the ship 
after a long passage, in order to get ashore 
more speedily, he had availed himself of 
one of the numerous boats that come along- 
side of a large vessel as soon as she enters 
the port. 

“Your son is probably married?” said 
the captain to Madame Du Hamel. 

“ No,” replied she. 

“ Ah ! I was thinking ; is that not he 
who is coming towards us, off there in 
that boat ? There is a lady sitting in the 
stern.” 

She looked earnestly and exclaimed, 
“ Yes, yes, that is lie ! there he is !” 

The captain was obliged to restrain her, 
lest she might commit some imprudence. 

“ He is doubtless escorting a lady pas- 
senger who is as anxious as he to reach 
the shore.” 

Madame Du Hamel listened to him no 
longer. She had sprung forward to one 
of the stairs of the wharf which the boat 
was trying to reach. 

“George! George!” exclaimed she, “it 
is I ! I am here ! Come, come !” 

George raised his head, looked, and 
recognized his mother. Then he leaped 
from the boat, climbed the stairs with 
surprising agility, and seizing in his 
arms the dear woman weeping for joy, 
he pressed her to his heart and covered 
her with kisses. Some steps off stood 
the old captain, looking at them, while 
large tears ran down his cheeks. 

“When my sons come ashore,” said 
he, “after a long absence, I appear just 
as weak as that mother and son do now. 
Good ! why, I am in tears now ! Let us 
go to breakfast ; she has no longer any 
need of me now, and I will not have the 
indiscretion to put myself in the way of 
receiving her thanks. But would she 
think of giving me thanks on such an oc- 
casion as this?” 

And, as this excellent man still felt 


THE GIRL OF COLOR. 


9 


quite overcome, he thought he would 
light a cigar as a sort of consolation to 
the afflicted. 

Madame Du Hamel and George per- 
ceived that the place was not the proper 
one for the manifestation of their joys, 
and that they would be more comfortable 
at the hotel. 

“ Come, come,” said she to George, try- 
ing to drag him along with her, “ I alighted 
at the hotel you see opposite, — the Ad- 
miralty. We have only the wharf to 
cross.” 

lie was about to follow her, when a 
thought struck him. Upon seeing his 
mother he had forgotten everything ; 
but, after the first emotions of tender- 
ness, memory returned. 

“Proceed on,” said he; “I will be 
with you shortly. I must take leave of 
one of my traveling companions.” 

She obeyed without saying to herself 
that the leave-taking must have already 
taken place on board, and that, as re- 
garded the traveling companion, the boat 
contained only one woman. And what 
the old captain had foreseen took place. 
She did not think of looking for him in 
the crowd, in order to thank him for con- 
secrating the morning to a stranger. She 
went off, light and joyous, entirely ab- 
sorbed in him whom she had just seen 
again, and saying to herself, — 

“ How he has grown ! how handsome 
he is ! We will leave each other no more ; 
we will love each other for the five years 
that have gone by.” 

As soon as he was alone, George, with 
an anxious eye, began to look after some 
one in the crowd. 

What had become of the person with 
whom, but a few minutes before, he had 
left the Zurich ? 

He soon found her, surrounded by 
the hotel employees offering her their 
service. 

“ I beg your pardon,” said he, running 
up to her, “ that was my mother.” 

“ You ought to have informed me of it, 
at least,” said she. “You, perhaps, think 


that I am perfectly at my ease in the 
midst of all these people, in this country 
which I am not acquainted with !” 

She uttered these words with a certain 
dryness, but a very decided Creole accent 
softened the roughness of her voice. 

“ My dear friend, in order to give you 
any information on this subject, it would 
have been necessary for me to suspect 
that my mother was waiting for me in 
Havre. On seeing her, I thought only 
of running to embrace her. You under- 
stand and pardon me, I am sure you do.” 

“ What I understand, especially at this 
time,” said she, “ is the need of going to 
a hotel, that I may not remain here ex- 
posed and alone.” 

“ That is very true. Here is the India 
Hotel, of good appearance, and I think 
you will be very comfortable there.” 

“ How I I shall be very comfortable 
there ? Will you not go there with me?” 

“ I will join you as soon as I have the 
time, but at present I must devote myself 
to my mother.” 

This phrase inspired George’s compan- 
ion with this reply, — 

“Ah, mon Dieu! how tired I am al- 
ready of your country! I have done 
wrong to follow you.” 

“ I thought,” said he, a little hurt, 
“that you had a great desire to see 
France ?” 

“ I imagined it different from what I 
find it. New Orleans is much more gay 
and agreeable than Havre.’’ 

“We shall not stay in Havre, but go 
soon to Paris.” 

“ Paris ! Paris ! Still another dis- 
appointment, perhaps.” 

While talking thus they came to the 
India Hotel, whfch is but a few steps 
from the Admiralty Hotel. While cross- 
ing the threshold they were met by a 
sailor from the Zurich. The captain had 
sent him to inform them that their bag- 
gage had just' been transferred to the 
custom-house, and that they might go 
and receive it. 

“ You would be very obliging, my dear 


10 


ARTICLE Jf7. 


Cora,” said George to his companion, “if 
you would attend to this business your- 
self. Here is the custom-house building ; 
you will easily distinguish our baggage, 
and you have all the keys.” 

“ It is also very amusing,” replied she, 
“to go and shut myself up in a hotel 
room all alone, and I shall get my dresses 
sooner.” 

“ I shall see you again soon,” said 
George, as he left for the Admiralty 
Hotel. 

“ Don’t hurry on my account,” cried 
Cora. 

These last words, and especially the 
tone in which they were pronounced, 
made George shudder. 

He had a right perhaps to count upon 
more tenderness on the part of his trav- 
eling companion. He was tempted to re- 
trace his steps, in order to change this 
coolness, and explain his conduct, so’ 
natural however, and to get pardoned ; 
but his duties as a son had claims upon 
him. His filial afiection triumphed at 
this moment over every other sentiment, 
whatever it might be. He hurried off to 
the Admiralty Hotel, inquired for his 
mother’s rooms, and proceeded to rejoin 
her. 


IV. 

She whom he had called Cora was 
during this time on her way to the cus- 
tom-house building. She was nearly 
there, when a young man, from twenty to 
twenty-three years of age, irreproachably 
dressed, with a rose in his button-hole 
and a light cane in his hand, accosted 
her with his hat off, and said, — 

“You appear to me to be a stranger, 
madame. I have lived in Havre ever 
since I was a boy, and am_ perfectly well 
acquainted with the place. Will you al- 
low me to offer you my •services ? The 
custom-house is often noisy, and I can 
enable you to avoid a multitude of litùe 
annoyances.” 


I “ But, sir,” said she, raising her eyes 
towards him who was addressing her. 

“You can accept my offer, madame,” 
replied he, in a tone which he attempted 
to render serious, but in which appeared 
a degree of irony. “ It is made with the 
greatest respect and disinterestedness. 
Permit me, if you please, to introduce 
myself. My name is Victor Mazilier, and 
I am the only son of the richest ship- 
owner in Havre.” 

When she looked at him more atten- 
tively, he continued, flourishing his cane 
with an elegance quite Parisian, — 

“ I was passing along on Marine Wharf, 
a short time ago, in order to go on board 
of one of my father’s numerous ships, 
when my attention was attracted by the 
arrival of the Zurich. The passengers, 
as usual, appeared desirous of disembark- 
ing as soon as possible. I wished to be 
present at the show. I must tell you, 
madame, that we young men are terribly 
annoyed in Havre. It is an insupportable 
city, where they talk only about sugar, 
cotton, or coffee. I am a Parisian in soul, 
and like only the Italian boulevard, the 
English coffee-house, and the 3Iaison 
Dorée (the gilt house). Have you heard 
of the Maison Dorée T' 

“ Sometimes,” said she, timidly, cast- 
ing down her eyes. 

“ I suspected it. At New Orleans they 
must talk a great deal about the gilt 
house." 

“ How do you know that I come ” 

“From what other place could you 
come ? You are a Creole from Louisiana. 
It is written on your face. Does any other 
part of America produce such beautiful 
women ?” 

This compliment, so common, and so 
brutally paid, must make a lively impres- 
sion upon Cora, but from a motive differ- 
ent from the allusion made to her beauty. 
Little did she care about the homage paid 
to her. Was not her beauty incontest- 
able, confessed by all who approached 
her? 

Everything in her was admirable : jet- 


THE GIRL OF COLOR. 


11 


black hair, long black eyelashes, covering 
eyes of somewhat elliptical form, sharp, 
tender, passionate, cruel, or languid at 
will ; eyes which speak and express all 
the passions, the best and the worst ; 
which say I adore you, or I hate you ; 
timid and drowned in tears at one mo- 
ment, flames of fire at another, and al- 
ways voluptuous ; a nose, not perfect if 
measured by the rules of art, but one of 
the most charming, with rose-colored nos- 
trils dilate and tremulous ; a fine auburn 
down on her thick lips of lively red, a 
little turned up, and always ready to show 
small, well-set white teeth ; and over this 
charming face was diffused that warm 
paleness, so to speak, of women born in 
tropical countries. 

She had been aware of all these per- 
fections for a long time. She knew also 
that she was as well shaped as she was 
beautiful. Her broad shoulders, her well- 
developed bust, and all other parts requi- 
site to a perfect figure, were all in perfect 
keeping with one another. 

But although the compliments paid to 
her beauty made but little impression, as 
they were so common and always antici- 
pated, yet she had been especially well 
pleased on hearing the following words 
from the mouth of Victor Mazilier, You 
are a Creole from Louisiana." 

And this requires an explanation. 

In France they use the word creole 
very carelessly, and without understand- 
ing its meaning. It is applied indiffer- 
ently to every inhabitant, whether of our 
colonies of the Antilles, of Bourbon, of 
Guiana, or even of certain parts of South 
America. Only two great classes are 
recognized : the negro and the creole. 
What is not negro must of necessity be 
creole. 

This is an error. In order to have a 
rio-ht to the title of Creole in the colonies, 
it is necessary to be born of white parents 
and have no mixed blood in the veins. 
Whatever may be the whiteness of your 
face, though it rival that of the lily, if 
your great-great-grandfather was only a 


mulatto, and if in going back ten genera- 
tions a drop of mulatto blood is discov- 
ered, you will no longer be called a Creole, 
but simply a man or a woman of color, or 
in other words, a colored man or woman. 

Cora, whose dazzling beauty we have 
just described, and whose fine soft hair 
and charming complexion might have ex- 
cited the envy of the most aristocratic 
women of Paris, Cora was not a Creole, 
but she was simply a girl of color, une 
fille de couleur. If her genealogy were 
traced back into the night of time, it 
would certainly be found that her remote 
ancestors had black faces and crisped hair. 
She knew it, and all around her knew it. 
From her cradle she had been made to feel 
it. Therefore she must be exceedingly 
delighted, on her arrival in France, to find 
herself saluted by the title of Creole, so 
passionately desired. 

This flattery was the more acceptable 
as Victor Mazilier thought he was tell- 
ing the truth. As a citizen of Havre, he 
was somewhat cosmopolitan. He had had 
constant intercourse with colonists of all 
sorts and of all shades. By certain signs, 
imperceptible to many others, he knew 
admirably well how to class them as they 
should be ; but the idea would never have 
occurred to him, on seeing Cora, to doubt 
the purity of her origin. 

Morally, on the contrary, he had made 
no mistake in regard to her. He had 
guessed, with the tact of all young men 
who have lived much in Paris, that the 
newly arrived young woman could not be- 
long to good society. Did he not know 
that young America, like old Europe, has 
her déclassées women, and that the New 
World has for a long time enjoyed the 
luxury of a demi-monde f 

“ The specimen it sends us is delicious,” 
said he to himself, “ Suppose I should ap- 
propriate it. Why not? What success 
should I have at the theatre with this 
splendid creature I All Havre would be 
revolutionized ! I should receive an ova- 
tion in the circle, and the Parisian jour- 
nals would perhaps speak of me. What a 


12 . 


ARTICLE Jf[. 


fine dream ! But her traveling com- 
panion? — Bah! no passion can resist a 
forty days’ Ute-à-tête at sea. The mo- 
ment is favorable ; and then I have mo- 
ney. Instead of going to spend it in 
Paris, I will spend it here. It will last 
the longer.” 

It was with such ideas that he ap- 
proached Cora, and succeeded, after some 
effort, in causing her to accept his services 
at the custom-house. The question now 
was how to be agreeable, to please and to 
triumph. In our days, young men, and 
especially rich young men, find no diffi- 
culty in so small a matter as this. 


How had George du Hamel been in- 
duced to come to France with a woman of 
color? At what time did their intimacy 
begin, and how did it originate? Such 
are the questions which it is important to 
answer. 

George’s father, after spending on 
’change, in different circles, and on race- 
courses, the dowry of his wife and a con- 
siderable capital received from his family, 
formed one day the resolution that, in- 
stead of vegetating on the theatre of his 
old exploits, he would go to the United 
States and endeavor to re-establish his 
fortune. 

America was not then, in an industrial 
and commercial point of view, so much 
occupied as it is at the present day. It 
was not rare for an active man, acquainted 
with business, to create for himself in a 
few years a good position in life. The 
Europeans enjoyed a certain prestige 
among a people, very intelligent to be 
sure, but still unexperienced in many re- 
spects. 

Monsieur Du Hamel carried to the other 
side of the ocean all the ardor of a man 
eager to arrive, and desirous to see again 
as soon as possible his country, wife, and 


son, from whom he had been obliged to 
separate. He ran after fortune with legs 
already exercised, already broken in the 
struggle ; and he did so well, and ran so 
fast without regard to fatigue, that for- 
tune, being exhausted and out of breath, 
little accustomed to the movements of a 
velocipedist, allowed herself, one fine day, 
to be caught at the turn of a road. 

This rapid course had lasted several 
years. Monsieur Du Hamel had formed 
business relations and acquired friends. 
On election-day they had nominated him 
as alderman of New Orleans, and he had 
in this city attachments in all directions. 

Finally, gratitude told him it was his 
duty not to leave a country in which every- 
thing had smiled upon him, and return to 
France, where he had never succeeded in 
anything but in spending his fortune. He 
used sometimes to say to himself, that he 
had left on the other side of the ocean a 
wife still young, and a son : but, for their 
interest, was it not preferable that he 
should continue to augment a fortune 
which would one day be theirs? He 
might, it is true, have written to them to 
join him, but the passage is painful from 
France to America ; the climate of New 
Orleans is sometimes fatal to Europeans ; 
his son was getting his education at Paris ; 
was it not better that he should finish it 
there, and that his mother should remain 
with him to guide him by her counsels? 
All these reasons induced him to eternize 
his exile and not make his family share it 
with him. 

But one day his plan of conduct was 
modified by the following passage con- 
tained in a letter from Madame Du Hamel : 

“ Your son is a splendid horseman. He 
has realized, physically, all that he prom- 
ised on your departure. He is tall, well 
shaped, uncommonly vigorous, thanks to 
the fencing exercises you recommended to 
him, with so much reason, in your letters. 
Morally, you would be delighted with him. 
He is intelligent, good, and affectionate, 
and loves you more than you deserve, you 
ungrateful man ! But ^ — alas ! there is a 


THE GIRL OF COLOR. 


13 


hut after all things, — I fear for him that 
Parisian life which I cannot prevent his 
becoming acquainted with, and into which 
he appears to me to be plunging with all 
the ardor of his twenty years and the exu- 
berance of a too passionate nature. If 
his heart is excellent, his brain is a little 
light, vivacious and rash. 

“It has already exposed him to certain 
dangers Avhich have given me great in- 
quietude. The other day it was a duel, in 
consequence of a political discussion in a 
coffee-house of the Latin quarter. Don’t 
be alarmed, he wounded his adversary, 
but the poor child himself might have 
been wounded, killed possibly. Ah 1 my 
hand trembles at the thought I This duel 
occasioned some talk. Pray think, a se- 
rious duel, with swords, between young 
men hardly of age I But the law thought 
it a duty to prosecute our poor George. 
He escaped by paying a small fine and re- 
ceiving a reprimand from the judge. It 
is true he had wounded a deputy, a mem- 
ber of the government. The young man 
had maintained that everything was go- 
ing on for the best in the best of empires 5 
and your son, who is not of that opinion, 
and why I know not, had replied, and 
hence the duel. 

“ It would be well if this were all I but 
no, that duel, it seems, has made George 
conspicuous in the Latin quarter. There 
is a crowd of young men there, students 
in law and medicine, who meet every 
evening in places they call, I think, hrew- 
houses, to discuss or converse upon science, 
art, social and political economy, which 
is certainly better, in my opinion, than 
talking horse, carriage, and actress, as 
other young men do. But they do not 
limit themselves to mere talk ; they become 
excited, quarrel, and organize manifesta- 
tions, — that is, according to the picturesque 
definition of George, an active fashion or 
way of informing the government of their 
opinions and of making them a part of 
the government itself. The other day the 
question was about going to the Odeon 
Theatre to hiss down an actor too friendly 


to the government, as they thought ; and 
as they swear now, in the Latin quarter, 
only by George du Hamel, our son was 
naturally of the party. The representa- 
tion was very noisy ; they hissed, and 
hissed, and hissed so much, that the police 
interfered. Arrests were made. George 
was collared by a policeman. He freed 
himself by applying his fist and foot to 
his aggressor. But he had to deal with a 
strong party. He was arrested and taken 
to the police station. J udge what a night 
I passed: at nine o’clock in the morning 
he had not returned, and I knew not what 
had become of him. I had all the diffi- 
culty imaginable to extricate him. It was 
necessary to get your old college compan- 
ion to interfere, — M. Vernet, who is offici- 
ating as attorney-general. Thanks to his 
influence, George was not brought before 
the correctional police, but is now under 
the eye of the prefecture. Some have 
been kind enough to tell me that he is 
regarded by the government as a danger- 
ous man ! Dangerous f — he, so good, so 
generous, so charming 1 

“ All this is very disquieting to me. 
My life is wasting away in continual anx- 
iety. If George is fifteen minutes behind 
time for his breakfast, I imagine he is 
fighting a duel. If at ten in the evening 
he has not returned, my imagination is 
excited, my poor head labors, and I soon 
see him arrested as connected with some 
serious affair. I cannot go to sleep till 
he surrounds me with his arms, and says 
to me with his sweet and gentle voice, 
‘ Good-night, dear mother, a good night’s 
rest to you, and call me if you are 
ill. You know that I am your nurse. 
Nobody else has a right to take care of 
you. Come, cover yourself up warm. 
Wake me in the morning, if you rise 
first.’ 

“ I beg of you, my husband, send for 
him to come to you, that you may initiate 
him into that American life which you 
call so beautiful, and endeavor to cool his 
blood and head, and make a man of him. 
He is still nothing but a child. 



14 


ARTICLE p. 


“ Ah 1 my tears must flow while making 
this request,— to think of separating from 
my George, who is all my joy, all my 
life I — no more to walk with him arm in 
arm, — no more to know that he is in his 
chamber near me, — no more to embrace 
him when I retire for the night or awake 
in the morning! What will become of 
me? I know not. But his happiness 
before everything ! This voyage is neces- 
sary, and I ought not to hesitate. 

“ I don’t ask to accompany him at pres- 
ent. The excitements I have experienced 
for several months have rendered me 
quite ill, and I could not bear the incon- 
veniences of a long passage. I wait for 
an answer, my husband. I shall^ not 
lack courage when the moment of separa- 
tion arrives.” 

Monsieur Du Hamel, after reading this 
letter, took his pen and replied as follows : 

I am of your opinion, my dear wife ; 
a residence in Paris at this time will not 
be without danger to George. Send him 
to me as speedily as possible. I regret 
that the state of your health will not 
allow you to follow him, but hope you 
will be with us soon.” 


After leaving college, and whilst stu- 
dying law, George felt a strong inclination 
in the direction of politics. That youthful 
exuberance which so much alarmed his 
mother was expended in discussions which 
sometimes had degenerated into quarrels 
and manifestations, often perhaps too bold 
and prominent. But that taste for serious 
things and great ideas, which agitates our 
time, those social themes which should 
interest all youth, and with which only a 
few young men in the schools and colleges 
are occupied : that taste, we say, had pre- 
served him from every dissipation and 
habitual folly. 

When once in America, George was 


obliged to modify his way of life. The 
views he took pleasure in sustaining, in 
France, no longer afforded him any inter- 
est. He found, besides, no longer any 
adversary to contend with ; for everybody 
shared his liberal ideas. It often hap- 
pened that he found himself in the com- 
pany of persons much more advanced than 
himself, and that he was obliged to con- 
fess that the liberal of the Latin quarter, 
in France, was often, in the United States, 
only a frightful reactionist. Politics, 
therefore, being out of the question, what 
was to be done? Should he enter into 
industrial or commercial business ? 

He came to the conclusion that it would 
be wiser to enjoy the fortune that his 
father had given him, in token of his 
joy at seeing him once more with him. 
Having been entirely devoted to his 
studies, his friends, and his mother, up to 
the present time, he had not had much 
chance for amusement. And why should 
he not have it? Never would he have a 
better opportunity. 

New Orleans, before the war which has 
depopulated and impoverished it, offered 
to persons of pleasure the greatest allure- 
ments. Pretty women especially seemed 
to have made it their place of rendezvous. 
At the French and American theatres, in 
public balls and in private parties, one 
could meet with splendid American, Irish, 
and Creole ladies. 

George du Hamel, having been intro- 
duced as a Parisian into Creole society, 
which forms in New Orleans a sort of 
French colony, was soon made aequainted 
with the best and the worst phases of it. 

Into the one he carried his natural dis- 
tinction, his charm of manners, and his 
joyous youth, tempered by an excellent 
education ; into the other all the fire of 
his twenty-four years, and all the ardor 
of a passional nature, hitherto restrained, 
and ready to enjoy its liberty. 

But George, during the first years of 
his residence in New Orleans, whatever 
follies he might have been guilty of, had 
been accused of none having a damaging 


THE GIRL OF COLOR. 


15 


effect upon his future. He was select, or 
eclectic, in love matters, passing indiffer- 
ently from blonde to brown, from Irish to 
American, and from Creole to mulatto. 

In the summer his life was passed gayly 
in some of the houses built on the two 
banks of the Mississippi. He would spend 
a month in one, a week in another; 
always well received and fêted. 

The winter saw him, in the day-time, on 
the promenade leading to Lake Pontchar- 
train, cantering by the side of some 
American lady ; in the evening enjoying 
the mazy waltz with a Creole girl ; and at 
night practicing music in a fashionable 
boarding-house. 

The very variety of his affections was 
his safeguard, and his father, who kept 
his eye upon him, had no anxiety on his 
account. 

In the third year of his residence in 
the United States, one evening of Decem- 
ber, 18 — , George was about to enter the 
French theatre, of which he was one of 
the faithful supporters, when a woman 
who passed before him attracted his at- 
tention. He quickened his step, over- 
took her under the vestibule of the thea- 
tre, and was struck with her beauty. 
Never, since his arrival in New Orleans, 
had he seen so perfect a creature. 

She cannot be a regular attendant,” 
said he to himself, “ as I am not ac- 
quainted with her. What place is she 
going to take, I wonder ? I will follow 
her wherever she goes, though I should 
lose my orchestra chair.” 

He approached the controleur at the 
same time with the lady. 

“ I would like to secure a seat in the 
gallery,” said she, timidly, to an em- 
ployee sitting on an estrade. 

The employee, instead of taking the 
money tendered him and giving her a 
ticket in exchange, gazed at her atten- 
tively for a second or two. 

‘‘You are joking, doubtless,” said he, 
when he had finished his inspection. 

“Why?” asked she. 

“ You know well that you cannot oc- 


cupy a seat in the gallery ; your place is 
in the third row, in the loges grillées.'^ 

“ But, sir ” 

“ Don’t affect to be astonished. Am I 
not here to prevent colored people from 
introducing themselves fraudulently into 
places reserved for white people? We 
should have a pretty scandal and row in 
the hall if I had not recognized you. Al- 
though Madame Wideman sings to-night 
La Favorita, all the Creole ladies who have 
hired their boxes would leave the theatre 
and never set foot in it again. Let us 
see, will you have a third row box?” 

“No,” said she, energetically; “if they 
will not have me in the places, / will 
not take one in the ktst. If it displeases 
the Creole ladies to sit by me, it displeases 
me to be in the midst of mulattoes and 
slaves.” 

She was going to leave when George 
advanced. 


The few words he had just heard had 
revived all his youthful remembrances. 
His liberal ideas of former times, which 
had lain dormant for three years, re- 
sumed their throne in his heart again. 
The traveler, the stranger, and the seem- 
ingly indifferent young man had disap- 
peared as by a miracle, and the student 
of the Latin quarter was himself again. 

“Why do you insult that woman?” 
said he to the employee of the theatre. 

“ Why, sir, I do not insult her.” 

“ Yes. At all events, you spoke to her 
with a harshness which nothing can ex- 
cuse. Now, will you tell me by what 
right you refuse to her the place she asks 
for?” 

“ I have orders not to let enter the women 
of color, either into the gallery, the first 
boxes, or the second.” 

“ But the lady cannot be une Jille de 
couleur," said George, pointing to her 


16 


ARTICLE kl. 


whose defense he had taken, and behind 
whom he had taken his stand. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” replied the 
employee, politely. “ It is possible that 
a European may be mistaken in her, but 
I cannot be. A glance is sufficient to en- 
able me to tell the origin of every one. 
Besides, sir, you must have noticed that 
this woman did not contradict me. On 
coming here, she had hoped I should not 
recognize her, but when I did she did not 
protest.” 

That was true ; and now again, instead 
of remonstrating, the person in question 
lowered her veil and made every effort to 
retire. 

George understood the false position 
into which he . was putting her. From 
the beginning of this discussion, a large 
number of the patrons of the theatre 
formed a circle around the controleur and 
endeavored to look out of countenance 
the young woman who was the cause of 
all this tumult. She might feel happy to 
be defended, but preferred, doubtless, not 
to remain at the side of her defender. 

George turned towards her. ‘‘ Do you 
wish to enter the theatre, madame?” 
said he. 

“ No, sir ; I have said that I will not 
go up to the third row.” 

“ I don’t speak to you of the third tier 
of boxes, I speak of the first gallery. 
Take my arm, and I will escort you 
up.” 

“ Oh 1 oh !” cried several voices in the 
crowd. 

George raised his head and cast a 
glance over the people surrounding him. 

“ Yes,” said he, “ I mean to protest 
against the usage of which this woman is 
a victim at this time. It is barbarous, 
it is ridiculous, and ” 

He did not proceed, for his father had 
just taken him by the arm. 

“ Hush !” said he to his son, you are 
rash, crazy. You are getting into trou- 
ble. If you were not known and beloved 
as you are, you would already have had a 
quarrel on your hands.” 


“What do I care for that?” said 
George. 

“ It is possible that you care but little. 
But I care a good deal about it. For I 
have promised your mother to send you 
back to France safe and sound. Come, be 
reasonable. It is a ridiculous, an absurd 
prejudice, I confess, but deeply rooted in 
the manners and customs of the country. 
You cannot expect to abolish it. For the 
three years you have been living here, 
have you not become acquainted with it, 
and have you not had time enough to ac- 
custom yourself to it ?” 

“ Yes, I knew it, but by hearsay. Cer- 
tain places in the French theatre were 
forbidden to persons of color, I had been 
told, and I contented myself with shrug- 
ging my shoulders. But to-day I have 
found myself directly at loggerheads with 
this usage. I have seen put in practice 
what I had known until the present time 
only in theory, and I am indignant at it.” 

“ Be indignant as much as you please, 
but don’ t show your indi gnation. In trav- 
eling, the first duty of a well-educated 
man is to respect the usages of the coun- 
tries through which he is traveling. Come, 
come with me. Thanks to my friends and 
yours, I hope this affair will have no seri- 
ous consequences.” 

George was not entirely convinced. His 
blood boiled as in the days of the insur- 
rections in the Latin quarter at Paris. 
Perhaps he would not have followed his 
father if the person whose champion he 
was had remained still at his side. But 
she had adroitly profited by the diversion 
applied to the affair by the arrival of Mon- 
sieur Du Hamel ; she had slipped through 
the crowd and disappeared. The body of 
the crime, the corpus delicti, as they say in 
the courts, being out of the way, George 
took his father’s arm, entered the theatre, 
and took his seat in his accustomed place. 

Madame Wideman, one of the best ar- 
tistes New Orleans ever possessed, sang 
La Favorita ; and George, like all persons 
of a nervous und sanguine temperament, 
as easy to grow calm as to be excited, felt 


THE GIRL OF COLOR. 


17 


by degrees his head refreshed and his pulse 
diminished. « 

At the end of the first act, entirely re- 
freshed by the music of Donizetti and the 
voice of his principal interpreter, he had 
forgotten the little scene which had just 
taken place. 

But he soon perceived that it had made 
a more vivid and durable impression upon 
persons of his acquaintance who were in 
the theatre. 

The word had been passed around 
that a stranger, a Frenchman, George du 
Hamel, had taken up the defense of a 
girl of color, and had become indignant 
against the custom forbidding her taking 
one of the first places in the theatre, and 
that he had wished to seat her in the gal- 
lery by force. 

This conduct on the part of a man to 
whom New Orleans society had given a 
favorable reception, and whom it had al- 
ways treated as one of its own, was com- 
mented upon with the greatest severity. 
The friends of George attempted in vain 
to defend him. The women especially 
were the most implacable. Like that 
Roman lady who used to leave her bath 
in the presence of her slave, under the 
pretext that a slave was not a man, the 
Creole women do not admit that a girl 
of color is a woman, and that a man of 
good society can come out in her defense. 
Since the terrible war which abolished 
slavery in all the United States, this pre- 
judice is gradually dying out. But at 
the time we are speaking of, it was in full 
force, and the most liberal minds could 
hardly hope that it would ever be extinct. 

George was too well acquainted with 
the world not to perceive the kind of 
reprobation of which he was the object. 
The persons he was in the habit of visiting 
in their boxes between the acts gave him 
a very cool reception. Ladies in the gal- 
lery turned their heads away when he 
lifted his hat to them ; and many young 
men, with whom he was on good terms 
the day before, avoided shaking hands 
with him. 

2 


“What ought I to do?” said he to his 
father, during the time between the acts. 

“ Nothing. Wait till this unfavorable 
impression has passed away ; but, above 
all, avoid every kind of quarrel.” 

“ How ! Do you really think ” 

“ I think of nothing in particular ; and 
yet,” said he, looking some distance from 

him, “that meddlesome John de B 

seems to me much excited.” 

George looked at the man just named 
to him, and saw that he was talking in a 
group of young men. Their eyes met ; 
and before Monsieur Du Hamel could 

get his son away, John de B , leaving 

hastily the company in which he was 
talking, came to George. 


■V'lII- 

John de B had, in New Orleans, 

a terrible reputation as a duelist. He 
fought on all occasions, and with or with- 
out reason. He would fight a duel on 
account of a look, a word, a gesture ; 
because he had made a good dinner, or a 
bad one ; because the weather was stormy, 
or the sky too clear. If your face dis- 
pleased him, he would come and tell you 
so ; and if you prudently made no reply, 
he would contend that he was insulted, 
and send you a challenge. It being deci- 
ded that there must be a duel in any case, 
he showed himself very accommodating. 
All kinds of arms were good in his hands, 
whether a pistol, sword, gun, sabre, car- 
bine, or revolver. His adversaries might 
choose their own ground. Everything 
suited this man, who lived upon the life 
of others. He accepted with indifference 
a proposition to fight in the woods, in a 
field or forest, on a lake, river, or open 
sea. He was the man who proposed one 
day to one of his adversaries to fight a 
duel in a balloon. The combatants were 
to rise in separate balloon’s carry a sort 
of culverine in their respective boats, and 
fire at each other once in the air. His 


18 


ARTICLE Ji7. 


adversary refused the proposition, to the 
great despair of John de B . 

Such vras the man who was advancing 
with evidently hostile intentions towards 
George du Hamel and his father. 

“ Sir !” said he, addressing himself to 
George, when he had reached him. 

Monsieur Du Hamel wished to interfere. 

‘‘I beg your pardon, father,” said 
George, with firmness-, “it is with me 
that the man seems to have business. I 
pray you to let me reply to him. But,” 

said George, turning to John de B , 

“the place is perhaps ill-chosen for an 
explanation, and if you will permit it, we 
will step outside of the theatre.” 

He was afraid that his father, desirous 
to prevent a quarrel, would again inter- 
fere and render him ridiculous. 

“ Why go out ?” replied John de B . 

“ What I have to say to you can be sum- 
med up in a very few words.” 

“ That is possible. But what I have to 
say to you cannot be. I again propose to 
you to go out. I will not listen to another 
word here.” 

“ Ah !” said John, “ then ” 

He was about to proceed to blows. The 
Creoles of New Orleans are not talkers, 
they go direct to their object. John de 

B was evidently in pursuit of a duel. 

The surest and quickest means of accom- 
plishing his purpose was seriously to in- 
sult him whom he had selected for his 
adversary. But if he was celebrated for 
his dueling skill, George was no less so 
for his physical strength. The fancy 
might take the latter to begin by crushing 
the hand that might be raised against 
him, and put therefore his adversary.out 
of condition to fight a duel, before even 
there was any question about it. But 

that was not what John de B wanted. 

He consented to kill his man now and 
then, but did not wish to be flogged. 

“ Well,” said he, suddenly toning down 
a little, “ let us go out.” 

“I follow you, sir,” replied George. 
“ Go on before me, and I will meet you in 
front of the theatre.” 


Whilst John de B was going out 

George rejoined his father. 

“You have,” said he, “ followed with 
your eye the scene that has just taken 
place, and must have seen that I pre- 
served my temper. I hope to continue to 
be master of myself, and in order to suc- 
ceed, I shall not cease for a moment to 
think of my mother. For her sake I will 
do almost the impossible, to avoid an en- 
counter with that enraged man. Under 
the circumstances in which I am, there 
would not be, even if we were in France, 
any anxiety to be entertained. But we 
are in America. I am a Frenchman, and 
my gentleness, my longanimité, or for- 
bearance, cannot go beyond certain limits. 
The insults that have been given us in a 
foreign land are not only personal, but 
have in some measure a national charac- 
ter. Au revoir, they are waiting for me. 
I will be with you again in a moment. 
Don’t be anxious.” 

John de B , in company of some 

young men, was in the street in front of 
the theatre. When he saw George he 
joined him. 

The latter didn’t give him time to begin 
the conversation. “ What did you wish 
to say to me, sir?” asked George, very 
calmly, at the same time bowing politely 
to his adversary. 

“ I wish to say to you that you were 
guilty this evening of a great impro- 
priety towards all the Creoles of New 
Orleans, in assuming the defense of a 
girl of color, and in appearing to laugh 
at our usages.” 

“Have the Creoles of New Orleans 
commissioned you to be their interpreter 
to me, and chosen you for their cham- 
pion ?” 

“ I act on my own account, because 
your conduct ” 

“ My conduct you have just mentioned. 
I have been guilty of an impropriety to- 
wards the country which I live in. I am 
sorry for it, seeing that, until this day, I 
have received in this country the most 
cordial hospitality.” 


THE GIRL OF COLOR. 


19 


“ Then you make excuses?” 

“ To whom ? to the country I in- 
habit? Why, certainly I do, since I 
have had the misfortune to displease her 
through ignorance of her usages.” 

“ And do you make any to me ?” 

“What?” 

“ Excuses.” 

“ Why, no. You have assured me that 
you are not the champion of any one.” 

“Then you fight?” 

“With whom ?” 

“ With me.” 

“Why should I fight with you? I 
have never done anything to you, and I 
have nothing to reproach you with.” 

“And if I should insult you?” 

“ As you have no cause for insulting 
me, I should consider you a crazy man, 
and one does not fight with the insane.” 

John de B made no reply. He 

turned towards the young men whom he 
had left in order to talk with George, and 
cried out to them, — 

“Gentlemen, I thank you for having 
offered me your services; but this man 
does not fight. He is a coward.” 

“You have lied in regard to this mat- 
ter,” exclaimed George; “I do fight.” 

And springing upon John de B he 

boxed his ears. 

Generally the first thing a man does 
who gets his ears cuffed is to rush upon 
him who offered the insult. But John de 

B did not move. Only, when several 

of his friends had come up to him, he said 
to them, — 

“ I will kill him to-morrow.” 

It was evident to every one that the 
sentence of death had just been pro- 
nounced upon George du Hamel. 

“What have you been doing, my un- 
fortunate boy?” said his father, on rejoin- 
ing him a few minutes after. 

“ What you would have done in my 
place, if you had been told that you were 
a coward. And yet I wanted to avoid 
this duel, I assure you. To conclude, do 
you think you have courage enough to be 
one of my seconds ?” 


“ I must have that courage,” replied 
Monsieur Du Hamel. “Who better than 
I can defend your interests 1” 

They went immediately in pursuit of 
another second, notwithstanding the late 
hour of the evening. 


ix:. 

The next day, about ten o’clock in the 

morning, the seconds of John de B 

and those of George du Hamel met in a 
restaurant in New Orleans Street. 

As the idea of settling this sad affair 
did not for a moment enter the mind of 
any one, these gentlemen had only to ar- 
range the conditions of the combat. 

Which of the adversaries had the choice 
of weapons ? Who was the insulted man? 

John de B , who had received a blow, 

or George du Hamel, who had been treated 
as a coward ? Such was the question pre- 
sented in the first place, and which might 
lead to a conflict of opinion. 

It was immediately cut short by the 

seconds of John de B declaring, in 

his name, that he accepted the weapon or 
weapons of his adversary, provided that 
the duel about to take place should be a 
duel unto death. 

As soon as these words were uttered. 
Monsieur Du Hamel, as a father and as a 
second, remonstrated and protested. AU 
was useless. The instructions of John de 
B were very precise and decided. 

“ Well, gentlemen,” said Monsieur Du 
Hamel, rising, “the duel shall not take 
place, and your friend may make the best 
of his box on the ear. What is it to us ? 
We have been called cowards and have 
publicly boxed the ears of him who dared 
thus to insult us. Our honor is satisfied. 
If yours is not, and you have need of us to 
repair damages, be more accommodating, 
and do not come to propose to us a duel 
which humanity and our duties as seconds 
oblige us to reject.” 

“ These gentlemen wish for &Jirst blood 


20 


ARTICLE Jft, 


duel, a duel which shall end when the 
first drop of blood is spilled, as in France,” 
was the insolent remark of one of John 
de B ’s seconds. 

‘‘No, gentlemen,” replied Monsieur Du 
Hamel, without losing his temper, “the 
insults are too serious on both sides to be 
satisfied with a duel such as you speak of. 
But between a duel unto death and a 
duel after the French style, which you are 
pleased to sneer at, there is another, which 
ends only when one of the adversaries is 
put hors de combat. " 

“Ah, gentlemen,” said the second who 
had already spoken, “ the phrase ‘ hors de 
combat ’ is quite too vague ; it does not 
satisfy us. A wound in the arm is often 
sufficient to prevent an adversary from 
holding his weapon, and then ” 

“ Then, sir,” replied Monsieur Du 
Hamel, “ it is for him whom you repre- 
sent to be adroit enough not to hit my 
son in his arm.” 

“ Very well. He shall fire directly at his 
breast.” 

“ He can do as he pleases, and so can 
we,” said George’s father, who could not 
help turning pale on hearing this threat. 
He had consented to serve as a second to 
his son, but the task was a cruel one. 

The four seconds discussed the subject 
a while longer, and ended by deciding that 
the duel should be fought with swords on 
the same day, in a sort of clearing near 
Lake Pontchartrain, about two leagues 
from New Orleans. 

George had just finished a long letter to 
his mother when his father rejoined him. 

“Well,” said George. 

“Get ready ; we start in an hour.” 

“ I am all ready.” 

“ Have you any requests to make ?” 

“Yes ; I have one to make to you. If I 
am killed, I wish you to abandon the in- 
terests and affections which you may have 
here, and go to France to join my mother. 
By so doing the shock will be less severe 
to her. I wish you also to give her this 
letter yourself, which contains my last 
adieus.” 


“ I solemnly promise to do what you 
request ; but you will not be killed.” 

“ I expect to be, dear father. I count 
upon it.” 

He stepped into his room to brush 
himself up a little, and in half an hour 
after, with smiling air, calm and cheer- 
ful face, and cigar in his mouth, he 
joined his two seconds in the carriage 
which they had ordered. 

They were about giving orders to the 
coachman to start, when a negress, who 
had just crossed the street on the run, 
sprang to the coach door. 

“What do you wish ?” asked George. 

“I wish you to give this letter to 
Monsieur George du Hamel.” 

“ I am the man, give it to me.” 

He unsealed and read as follows : 

“A thousand kind wishes from her 
whom you protected yesterday, and for 
whom you fight a duel to-day.” 

“Why,” said George, with a smile, “I 
am not going to fight for her, but for my- 
self.” 

And, passing the letter to his father : 

“ By the way,” asked George, “ do you 
know that young woman I defended yes- 
terday, and who writes to me to-day? 
She seemed to me very pretty, but I con- 
fess that my other thoughts, since that sad 
adventure, have made me forget her.” 

“ I received this morning some infor- 
mation in regard to her,” replied Mon- 
sieur Du Hamel. 

“ Well, please let me hear.” 

u But ” 

“You think the time ill-chosen, dear 
father, but you are wrong. For my own 
sake, you ought to try to amuse me and 
divert my attention. If we remain silent, 
I shall be apt to give myself up to the 
thoughts of France and my dear mother. 
That would excite me, and you know that 
coolness is what I especially need at the 
present time.” 

Monsieur Du Hamel yielded to this 
reasoning, and made an effort to subdue 
his own thoughts and give the informa- 
tion asked for. 


THE GIRL OF COLOR. 


21 


“ The person in question,” said he, “ is 
called Cora, and lives in the upper part of 
St. Philip Street, in a wooden house of 
good appearance, by the side of a large 
garden, wholly planted with flowers. You 
can see it from here. You have passed it 
fifty times on horseback.” 

‘‘ Certainly : I see the house very dis- 
tinctly. But how happens it that I have 
never seen her who inhabits it? The 
white women of New Orleans, even wo- 
men of the best society, are out a great 
deal in the open air, sit at their windows, 
and often, in the evening, on the thresholds 
of their doors ; how happens it, then, that 
a girl of color, [une Jille de couleur) is in- 
visible, and lives like a recluse?” 

“It is exactly because she is a woman 
of color ; she is afraid that her origin may 
expose her, as it did yesterday, to insults, 
and she avoids showing herself in public 
as much as possible.” 

“ She has not then decided to accept 
the difficulties of her situation?” 

“ No 5 she is too pretty, too distin- 
guished, and especially too white.” 

“You seem to understand her situation 
well.” 

“I do. She finds herself superior in 
beauty and whiteness to the majority of 
the women in New Orleans, and is enraged 
at the low position which she occupies. 
If she were decidedly bronzed or copper- 
colored, like a mulattress or a quadroon, 
she would hâve decided long ago what 
to do; but no physical difference sepa- 
rating her from the whites, she will 
never get accustomed to the moral dis- 
tance which prevents her from associ- 
ating with them.” 

“ How does she live ? Has she any 
lovers?” asked George. 

“ Nothing is said about her in that re- 
spect, and that is easily explained. She 
has but one desire in the world, and that 
is to leave New Orleans and go to live in 
Europe, where the prejudice from which 
she suffers does not exist. In order to 
realize this dream, she is determined to 
make the best of her beauty and charms. 


and induce some one, influenced by them, 
to take her to France.” 

“ That is not bad reasoning for a girl 
of color. Has she the means of living, 
whilst waiting for her chance to leave 
for Europe?” 

“ Her mother, who was a very good 
seamstress, left her a house and a large 
garden in St. Philip Street. She lives 
in the house and cultivates the garden, 
which affords her superb bouquets, that 
her slaves sell in the market and private 
houses.” 

“Ah 1 has she slaves ?” 

“Yes, indeed ; and she shows herself 
the more cruel to them, as she herself is 
a great-great-granddaughter of a slave. 
It is said that she takes vengeance on 
these unfortunate creatures for the vexa- 
tions which white women have made her 
experience. Especially is this true in re- 
gard to two pretty mulatto girls, whom 
she recently bought at Memphis.” 

“And it is on account of this amiable 
creature that I am going to expose my 
life in a moment !” said George, looking 
out of the coach-window to see if they 
were near the place selected for the duel. 


x:. 

On reaching Lake Pontchartrain, the 
carriage took a narrow road running 
along the side of the lake, and stopped 
before a small farm near an orange-grove. 
That was the spot chosen for the duel. It 
might be about five o’clock in the after- 
noon. 

George du Hamel, followed by his two 
seconds, alighted from the carriage. 

“ Hold ! what are all those carriages 
yonder here for?” asked George. 

The seconds looked in the direction in- 
dicated, and saw some thirty vehicles, of 
all forms, scattered here and there on the 
road, near the farm, and in the neigh- 
boring clearing. Saddle-horses, tied to 


22 


ARTICLE 47. 


clumps of trees and watched by negroes, 
seemed to be waiting for their riders. 

“ lias your adversary invited his friends 
to this duel?” said George’s father. “Butit 
is against all usage, and 1 am going ” 

“Wait,” exclaimed George. “His sec- 
onds are coming towards us. We will 
know what to depend upon.” 

Being interrogated as to the presence, 
in the place for the duel, of persons for- 
eign to the aflPair, the seconds of John de 

B replied that several inhabitants of 

New Orleans had wished to be present at 
the encounter that was about to take 
place, and that they could not prevent it. 
And besides, the offense having been 
public, it was thought natural and proper 
that the reparation should be also. 

Monsieur Du Hamel wanted to protest, 
but George stopped him. 

“ We are losing our time in useless 
words,” said George. “We can never 
persuade all those persons to retire : they 
have come several leagues to see two men 
slaughter each other, and I should be 
sorry to deprive them of that little exhi- 
bition. Let them come, — let them come 
near, — and they will learn how a French- 
man fights whom they have dared to treat 
as a coward 1” 

Whilst the two seconds were going to 

inform John de B that they were 

waiting for him, George, turning to his 
father, said to him, in an animated 
tone, — 

“ I am delighted at this little incident ; 
it has stirred up my blood and irritated 
my nerves. I was too calm. It seems to 
me now that I am going to fight with 
more vigor. Lookl lookl” added he, 
“the spectators are approaching. See 
those just getting out of their carriages. 
There are others yonder just coming out 
of the woods. They are more numerous 
than I thought.” 

Suddenly he took his father’s arm, ex- 
claiming, — 

“ God bless me ! there are also women 
among them. Ah, this is too bad ! Had 
I been told this would take place, I could 


not have believed it. Women — and 
women of the first class, as I see — pres- 
ent at a duel 1 Decidedly, in many re- 
spects, these Americans are still half- 
savages.” 

George was not mistaken. Several 
Creole ladies of New Orleans — among 
whom one might have noticed two or 
three young girls — had ventured to ap- 
pear on the ground chosen for this duel, 
as in France they go to the race-course. 
They were going to pass their judgment 
on the hits^ probe the wounds with eyes, 
and be present at the dying struggle of 
one of the two combatants. 

And let not the reader believe that, in 
order to make our recital more pictur- 
esque and striding, we invent certain de- 
tails at pleasure. Our imagination has 
nothing to do here ; we have recourse 
only to personal recollections. If we be- 
lieve it a duty, in order to respect certain 
proprieties, to change sometimes a proper 
name or abridge it, — if we happen often 
to displace purposely the locality of the 
scene, — we can at least affirm that the 
substratum or base of our recital is most 
scrupulously exact. Would it not be 
culpable to resort to invention or fiction, 
when the plain statement of facts would 
answer the same purpose ? 

The two adversaries and their four 
seconds, accompanied by their physician, 
entered the little orange-grove of which 
we have spoken, and soon found there an 
open space or clearing, well adapted to 
an encounter with swords. Gradually, 
while the combatants were getting ready 
and the seconds were arranging the de- 
tails, the curious, who had hitherto kept 
at a proper distance, silently approached, 
and formed a circle around the principal 
actors in this scene. 

“Are you ready, gentlemen?” asked 
one of the seconds of John de B , ad- 

dressing himself to the two combatants at 
the same time. 

They responded in the affirmative, and 
took the swords that were handed to them. 


THE GIRL OF COLOR. 


23 


\ 


Then they were placed opposite each other, 
swords were crossed, and, in the midst of 
profound silence, these words were pro- 
nounced by the seconds, — 

“ Ready, gentlemen 1” 

The combat was begun, and the curtain 
was raised for the spectators, who imme- 
diately perceived that they were going to 
witness a very interesting struggle. For 
the combatants seemed to be of equal 
strength and endowed with the highest 
degree of coolness or self-command. 

John de B began by a vigorous 

attack. George contented himself with 
parrying, intending to profit by the mo- 
ment when his adversary should leave 
himself exposed, so that he might attack 
him in his turn ; but J ohn de B com- 

mitted no blunder. His close play, his 
sword as prompt to defend as to attack, 
allowed of no surprise. 

At the end of about three minutes, 
the seconds ordered a suspension of the 
combat. 

George profited by this moment of rest 
to exchange a few words with his father, 
who, pale and silent, stood by his side, 
ready to give assistance in case of need. 

“ Don’t tremble so, father,” said George, 
in an under-tone. “ He is a first-rate 
fencer, as you see, but I believe I under- 
stand his play. I would give anything in 
the world,” added he, pressing his father’s 
hand, “ to have this duel prove no more 
fatal to him than to me.” 

As to John de B , he was exchang- 

ing smiles and salutations with the spec- 
tators, and seemed to say to them, “ Wait, 
I beg your pardon for not having yet ar- 
rived at any result, but you will lose 
nothing by waiting.” 

The combatants resumed their places, 
and swords were crossed again. This 
time it was George who made the attack, 
and with so much vigor that John de 

B was obliged to break up. He drew 

back thus some ten steps, and then at the 
moment when George was expecting to 
see him still retreat, and was preparing to 
press him more closely, he suddenly 


stopped, uttered a yell to intimidate 
George, and gave him a thrust direct. 

If George had been unguarded, or, in 
the phrase of the fencer, uncovered^ all 
would have been up with him. But his 
arm, which he had had time to bend back, 
served him as a shield, and was pierced 
through and through by the sword. 

In every other case, this wound would 
have been considered a fortunate one; 
for it presented an apparent gravity which 
might largely satisfy those interested ; it 
would not endanger life, and would ne- 
cessarily end the fight. But here, with an 

angry man like John de B , it served 

only to establish an immense dispropor- 
tion between the strength of the two com- 
batants. Indeed, when George’s seconds 
declared that the duel could not go on, 

John de B replied in a burst of 

laughter. 

And when they insisted upon what they 
had said: 

“ Are you joking ,” exclaimed he, “in 
wishing to stop the duel on account of a 
wound in the arm ? To think of satisfy- 
ing me with a scratch, when I want his 
life, would be ridiculous indeed !” 

And addressing himself to George, 
whose physician was examining his 
wound, — 

“ I am waiting for you, sir,” said he, 
“ and I count upon you.” 

The circle of spectators had formed 
more closely around the combatants. 

John de B , still holding in his hand 

his sword dripping with blood, went off 
to talk with those nearest to him. 


In a short time George’s seconds re- 
joined those of John de B , and 

Monsieur Du Hamel said, — 

“ Gentlemen, the physician declares that 
it is absolutely impossible for my son to 
hold his sword. In passing through his 
arm, the sword of his antagonist struck a 


24 


ARTICLE Jf7. 


nerve, which has produced a degree 
of paralysis ; and we are therefore 
obliged ” 

He was not able to finish 5 for J ohn de 

‘B , disregarding the custom which 

forbids adversaries to take any part in 
the conversation of the seconds, had just 
advanced. 

“If your son,” cried he, addressing 
Monsieur Du Hamel, “ cannot use his 
right arm, let him use his left, and let 
that end the matter.” 

George had heard what was said, and 
in his turn advanced and said to John de 
B : 

“ Do you wish me to do that?” 

“ Liable I do I wish it? It is you who 
seem to be unwilling to try the experi- 
ment.” 

“ My wound was thought severe enough 
to satisfy your wounded honor. But you 
do not think so ! You desire my life. 
Very well ! Take it if you can.” 

He quickly picked up his sword with 
his left hand, and brushing aside the 
seconds who wished to stop him, put him- 
self on guard. 

The combat was not so disproportionate 
as one might think. Certain Parisian 
fencing-masters, foreseeing the case in 
which their pupils might find themselves 
sword in hand in front of a left-handed 
man, accustom them to fence indifierently 
with the right hand and with the left. 
George, who had been a long time at their 
school, was therefore prepared to contend 
with his adversary. 

The duel recommenced, terrible and 
furious on both sides. The animosity of 
John de B— — , the presence of all those 
spectators, some of whom by their ges- 
tures, attitudes, and exclamations, mani- 
fested clearly the interest they felt in their 
fellow-countryman ; finally, his wound, 
from which he suffered cruelly, had ended 
by exasperating George du Hamel. He 
was decided, if he could, to give a lesson 
to that terrible duelist, who had to re- 
proach himself with the death of several 
persons. 


As to J ohn de B , he owed it to his 

reputation as a skillful fencer to dispatch 
with the greatest possible speed that man, 
already wounded and compelled to fight 
out the duel with his left hand. 

But he soon perceived that what he 
thought a disadvantage to his adversary 
gave him, on the contrary, a great superi- 
ority. George handled his sword with 
a surprising dexterity, whilst John de 

B , who had never found himself 

fencing with a left-handed man, was en- 
tirely thrown out of his bias or reckoning ; 
his play was no longer followed by 
the same effects 5 his best-adjusted thrusts 
failed to accomplish their object, and for 
a moment he was surprised to find that 
he parried with less ease those made by 
his opponent. 

Then that man, endowed with such a 
terrible coolness when he thought he had 
an advantage over his adversary, lost his 
self-command as soon as he saw the supe- 
riority which this change of hand had 
given George. He forgot in an instant 
all the principles and all the rules which 
form the basis of fencing, and used his 
sword just as a mere beginner would 
have done. 

At the same time, the feeling of his 
lack of power and of the danger he was 
in augmented his wrath. He uttered 
furious cries and made terrible leaps ; but 
every time he threw himself forward he 
encountered the sword of George, point- 
ing directly at his body, and immovable. 
Indeed, George, for awhile, disdained to 
attack, and contented himself with parry- 
ing, without even carrying his arm for- 
ward, using only a simple movement of 

his hand. Whilst John de B was 

losing his sang-froid, that of George re- 
turned to him. One might have imagined 
him in a fencing-hall. 

He thought now that this show might 
as well be ended, and having decided to 
inflict no mortal wound upon his adver- 
sary, he endeavored to deal him a blow 
which would put him hors du combat. 
He hit him without effect in his arm, 


THE GIRL OF COLOR. 


25 


shoulder, and thigh. The sword of John 

de B seemed sealed or riveted to his 

hand. Pain was powerless to make him 
relinquish it. But all these thrusts that 
he could not parry, and the blood which 
he felt running from his wounds, had 
made him insane. His cries had in them 
nothing human. His eyes protruded from 
their orbits, and he foamed at the mouth. 

Suddenly, a gleam of reason returned. 
He recovered, as by enchantment, that 
skill in fencing which had for a long time 
made him so terrible and so much to be 
feared. He tied with wonderful address 
the sword of his adversary, and threw 
himself violently upon him. But his arm 
met nothing but space, while his body, 
thrown violently forward, was precipitated 
upon the sword of George. 

He fell without uttering a cry. The 
sword had penetrated his abdomen and 
struck the vertebral column, passing 
through the lower vena cava. 

The attention of the physician was use- 
less. Five minutes after, J ohn de B 

breathed his last. 

Then there was great commotion among 
the spectators of this bloody drama. All 
approached and wished to take a last 
look at the man who had acquired so sad 
a celebrity. They refused to believe in 
his death. They asked themselves the 
question if he would not suddenly rise, 
seize his sword, and rush again upon his 
adversary. 

What I could that be the elegant, the 
charming and terrible John de B ? 

He who had for so long a time lived, as 
it were, on duels, died at last in a duel. 
A single sword-thrust was sufiScient to 
overthrow that giant of strength and skill. 

Had the interest which he inspired 
brought together all those spectators on 
the field of combat? No. The feeling 
0^ curiosity influenced the largest number 
of them. Terrible emotions or excite- 
ments always have a charm for certain 
persons. Others wished to please John 
de B , by coming to admire his cour- 

age and skill; and they were so much 


afraid of him, that he had at New Orleans 
his flatterers and his court. 

Was he regretted and mourned for by 
some? It is possible. His implacable 
pride, beauty, youth, and high deed of 
arms must have touched the hearts of 
some. One is induced to believe it, be- 
cause, after the duel, several female spec- 
tators had the courage to approach the 
spot where he had fallen and dip their 
handkerchiefs in his blood, a thing un- 
heard of before, and which we would not 
dare affirm if we had not seen it. 

As to George, without even wishing to 
have his bleeding arm cared for, he took 
as soon as possible the carriage that 
brought him. With the exception of his 
seconds, no one accompanied him, and 
no one dared to protest against what 
had just taken place. Should people in 
America compliment a Frenchman for 
having killed an American ? and on the 
other hand, could they blame him for 
having loyally and generously fought his 
duel? 

After taking his seat in the carriage, 
his nerves, for so long a time overstrained, 
suddenly relaxed ; and the man so brave, 
— who, since the day before, had shown 
no sign of weakness, — burst into tears 
like a child. 

“ I have killed him ! I have killed 
him !” exclaimed he, in his despair. 

“No, you did not kill him,” said his 
father, taking him by the hand. “You 
did, on the contrary, everything to spare 
him. It was he who threw himsejf on 
your sword.” 

But no reasoning could assuage his 
grief. 

On arriving at New Orleans, he had a 
violent fever, caused by his moral and 
physical suficrings. He took his bed, 
and for some time gave serious apprehen- 
sions to his friends. But his wound, 
which was at first considerably inflamed, 
soon began to cicatrize. His calm state 
of mind gradually returned, and his 
youth triumphed over all the dangers 
which had threatened him. 


26 


ARTICLE Jft. 


On his first going out, he found on the 
threshold of his door the negress who 
handed him a note from Cora at ' the 
moment he was starting for the battle- 
ground. 

This time, also, she handed him a 
letter. 

George repelled her. This Cora was 
odious to him. Was it not on her ac- 
count that he had fought the duel, had 
been wounded, dangerously sick, and had 
been led to kill John de B ? 

But the negress lifted upon him a sup- 
pliant look, and said, — 

“ If I do not carry back an answer, my 
mistress will beat me.” 

Through pity and curiosity, — perhaps 
because he suddenly remembered the 
charming features of Cora, — he took the 
letter, and read these words, — 

“It is absolutely necessary that I 
should speak with you. Pray come and 
see me.” 

He reflected a moment, and said to the 
negress, — 

“ Very well, I will call to-morrow.” 


XlII- 

Perhaps, some weeks later, George 
would not have thought of keeping his 
promise to Cora. Soirées, theatres, balls, 
concerts, and promenades would then oc- 
cupy all his time. But, for more than a 
month confined to his room by the order 
of his physician, he had not had a glimpse 
of any gracious countenance, and his best 
remembrances, assailed by fever and suf- 
fering, had gradually vanished. Sickness 
had in some degree blotted out his past 
life, and he was, so to speak, being born 
again, and another life was opening be- 
fore him. 

It seemed to him that his nature had 
become milder, and that his heart had 
new aspirations. Since his arrival in 
America he had thought only about 


amusements and living as fast as pos- 
sible ; bût now he had a desire for calm 
pleasure, sweet and pure joys. He 
would like to have some one by his 
side to love, some one to whom he 
could devote himself. His imagination, 
head, and senses had spoken up to the 
present time; the heart was now begin- 
ning to raise its gentle voice and claim its 
rights. 

In this frame of mind, deprived of all 
vivid remembrances, he could not help 
pitying that Cora, that poor girl of color, 
whose life a barbarous prejudice had 
made so sad, who was living alone, neg- 
lected, far from the world she loved, far 
from the pleasures to which her youth 
and beauty seemed to mvite her. 

Like her, and for having espoused her 
cause too publicly, he had become a sort 
of pariah. The majority of the drawing- 
rooms which had been so graciously 
opened to him formerly were now to be 
shut against him. The papers which he 
had read during his convalescence did 
not consider it criminal, his having killed 

John de B , for they acknowledged 

he did all he could to spare his life, but 
his having by his conduct laid John de 

B under the necessity of calling him 

to account. 

“ If Monsieur George du Hamel,” said 
the New Orleans Bee . — a paper edited by 
Creole young men, — “ had not forgotten 
his duties to us, — if, in contempt of the 
laws of hospitality, he had not risen 
against our most deeply rooted and re- 
spectable usages, — ^we should not have to 
mourn to-day for the death of one of 
our fellow-countrymen and one of our 
friends.” 

Thus, in spite of his generous conduct 
on the ground, and his wound, which 
had put his life in danger, he had not 
been forgiven. Ilis friends and acquaint- 
ance had forsaken or avoided him. 

Ah ! but he would manage to show 
them that he could do without them, and 
create for himself new associations. He 
would not return immediately to France, 


THE GIRL OF COLOR, 


27 


as his father had, at one moment, ad- 
vised. That would be misinterpreted, 
and pass for a flight. People would not 
fail to accuse him of wishing to avoid 
just reprisals, and of fearing that some 

friend of John de B might call him 

to account. No ! he would remain in 
New Orleans, live there as he pleased, 
and brave public opinion. The public 
had been unjust to him, but he would 
show himself insensible to its injustice. 
And if his old friends should wish some 
day to court and flatter him as formerly, 
he would repel all their advances, and 
eternize himself in his solitude. 

Together with these moral considera- 
tions, there were others which urged 
him towards the blooming garden of St. 
Philip Street. Since Cora had written 
him for the second time, he saw again, in 
imagination, that splendid creature whose 
beauty had for a moment dazzled him. 
Was it indeed the girl of color he had 
wished to protect ? In his life of dissipa- 
tion and pleasure, had he not forgotten 
his generous ideas of former days and his 
liberal aspirations ? Had he not simply 
taken up the defense of a beautiful young 
woman in order to attract her attention 
and win her good graces ? She seemed 
now ready to grant them and to reward 
him for having fought a duel on her ac- 
count. Why, then, should he not profit 
by these kind feelings and marks of sym- 
pathy? They would be a compensation 
for the hostility shown him. His isola- 
tion would cease, and he would find, per- 
haps, in Cora the new emotions which 
his heart yearned for. 


XIII. 

And, in fact, he did find them. 

Never did woman inspire, perhaps, a 
passion so sudden, and yet so serious and 
violent. And never was woman physi- 
cally more perfect, or took greater pains 


to please. The youth and manly grace 
of George, the charms of a cheerful and 
already thoughtful mind, his conduct to- 
wards her, his bravery and generosity 
witnessed and applauded by so many 
spectators, the kind of celebrity which 
his duel had given him, — all these things 
united, did they really captivate her? did 
she love all at once, as she was loved, 
sincerely and without a secret end in 
view? 

Or did she rather make only an adroit 
calculation ? Did she think she had found 
in George the only man who could in 
New Orleans brave the prejudice from 
which she was suffering, and dare to ex- 
pose himself for her? Did she see es- 
pecially in him a foreigner, who, at no 
distant period, would necessarily return 
to Europe with her, and make her finally 
the equal of all those white women who 
despised her so much ? 

However this might be, it is certain 
that, in order to attach George to herself, 
she had recourse to all the seductions of 
woman, known and unknown, down to 
her day. 

She began at first the conquest of his 
heart, by making herself yielding, ami- 
able, gracious, devoted, sentimental, and 
tender. She had a charming timidity, 
virginal modesty, and the abandon of re- 
fined poetry. Her warmest caresses had 
all the chasteness of legitimate love. 

She was careful to make herself useful, 
necessary, and indispensable. She lav- 
ished upon him thousands of attentions 
of which a mother and a loving sister 
alone have the secret. She took pleasure 
in making him acquainted with all the 
deep and pure joys of which he had been 
deprived for three years. She fondled, 
indulged, and pleased him in every way 
as one would a favorite child. 

Then, when she felt that she was ab- 
solute mistress of his heart, and that she 
had attached him to her by powerful 
bonds, she undertook to conquer forever 
his imagination and senses. She dis- 
missed at once her timidity and modesty. 


28 


ARTICLE Iff. 


which had become useless, and boldly ex- 
posed her splendid personal advantages. 

Thanks to her exuberant nature, her 
exalted imagination, and that corruption 
which seems to be innate in girls of color, 
and which renders them so dangerous, 
she was enabled to use all those refine- 
ments in the art of love which antiquity 
has bequeathed to us, and employed them 
as a means of seduction. 

And when he was completely subdued, 
and she saw that she had attached him to 
herself by indissoluble ties, — that he had 
lost consciousness of individuality and 
strength, — that she could desire every- 
thing, order everything, — then, as her task 
was finished, as she was now sure of her 
future, she resumed possession of herself, 
silenced her heart-beatings, and coldly 
exercised her authority. 

Finally the girl of color, disdained, de- 
spised, and driven from public places, had 
a white man for a slave ; a slave whom 
she could torture at her ease, without in- 
terference from the police, and upon whom, 
if the fancy took her, she could inflict 
punishment more horrible than any ex- 
perienced under the whip-lash, and upon 
whom she could take revenge for her 
abasement and shame ; a slave whom all 
the abolitionists in the United States could 
neither emancipate nor steal from her. 


What we have said of the dazzling 
beauty of Cora, of her ability to play all 
parts with unusual talent, of her amatory 
science pushed to the utmost limit, of that 
cold and implacable will with which she 
was endowed, and which she could direct 
towards one sole object, sufficiently ex- 
plains the sway which she in a short time 
obtained over George du Hamel. 

W e ought not to forget that he was then 
in his twenty-fourth year, at that time of 
life when the passions are the strongest, 


and when man has not yet acquired the 
experience necessary to battle with them. 
He was in love also for the first time, and 
with the confidence of an excellent heart 
and all the illusions of youth. 

And yet he did not agree at once and 
without protest to the demands made upon 
him. He endeavored to resist the des- 
potism under which Cora delighted to 
crush him. He had his moments of an- 
ger, indignation, and revolt. But all this 
went for nothing. The able conqueror 
who had reduced him to slavery exer- 
cised her tyranny only after assuring her- 
self of her power, and becoming certain 
that all rebellion would immediately be 
suppressed. 

During the first six months of their ac- 
quaintance, when Cora had not yet es- 
tablished her dominion, and was only lay- 
ing the foundation of it, and endeavoring 
to conquer George’s heart by her grace 
and kindness, he was astonished more 
than once at the quite patriarchal manner 
in which she ruled her household. 

Had not people asserted that she mal- 
treated her slaves, and avenged herself on 
them for the false position in which her 
origin placed her ? and that she especially 
exercised her tyranny over two pretty 
mulatto girls, whose olive complexion con-* 
stantly reminded her that her own grand- 
mother had possessed the same physical 
disadvantages ? 

How she had been calumniated I She, 
who spoke to her servants with so much 
kindness and gentleness ! 

Everybody seemed happy in that pretty 
habitation of St. Philip Street. Thousands 
of flowers in the garden smiled in the sun, 
and slaves smiled in the presence of their 
mistress. 

Had not people gone so far as to say 
that these two young mulatto girls, whom 
she went herself to buy in the Memphis 
slave-market, and had selected with great 
care, had been trained for a long time to 
her purposes and destined to render her 
solitude less painful? 

Ah, how they misunderstood her I and 


THE GIRL OF COLOR. 


2d 


how well George could answer to the con- 
trary ! 

One day, however, George had just en- 
tered the garden by a gate opening on the 
street, and was proceeding towards the 
house, when it seemed to him that he 
heard cries. He stopped and listened. 

There was no mistake. The cries were 
repeated ; they came from the house, and 
were the cries of a woman. 

His first thought was that some acci- 
dent had happened to Cora. He ran to 
the house, opened one door, then another, 
and stopped, sl;ruck with astonishment. 

In the middle of the saloon, pale, cold, 
and implacable, Cora, with the whip in 
her hand, was lashing the naked shoul- 
ders of one of her mulatto girls. The 
young girl, on her knees, was sobbing 
and uttering the most heart-rending cries. 

“Wretched woman! what are you 
doing ?” 

“ What I please,” replied Cora, not dis- 
concerted at being thus surprised, and 
letting her whip fall again upon the 
shoulders of the mulattress. 

“ Stop !” said he, rushing forward. 

“No ; she has refused to obey me, and 
I have condemned her to receive twenty 
lashes ; she shall have them.” 

“ I ask your pardon for her.” 

“ You have begun too late,” said she ; 
“ this is the twentieth blow, and the 
coiint is full.” And addressing herself to 
the girl, she added : 

“Now go ; if you repeat the offense, 
you know what awaits you.” 

When they were alone, George, upon 
whom this scene, unexpected and new to 
him, had made a painful impression, 
could not conceal from Cora his surprise 
and indignation. 

“ Is she not my slave,” said she, “and 
have I not the right to strike her?” 

“No; you have no such right. You may 
send her to the prison and cause her to be 
whipped, but you are forbidden by the 
police regulations to whip her yourself.” 

“ Are you a policeman ?” 

“No; but ” 


“ Then mind your own business.” 

“ Why, how you speak to me ” 

“ If my tone and manner don’t suit you, 
you are not obliged to listen to me. I 
will not detain you.” 

“ Very well; I leave,” said he. 

He went towards the door, with the 
idea that she would call him back. 

She made no motion, and said not a 
word. He left. 

When in the street, he expected for a 
long time that she would send after him. 
He turned around several times, thinking 
some one called him. Not so. 

He returned home and waited for a 
letter, but no letter came. 

At ten o’clock in the evening, unable 
to hold out any longer, he started for St. 
Philip Street. 

He found Cora swinging in her ham- 
mock, and the girl she had beaten in the 
morning gently rocking her. 

“Ah, is that you?” said she, with in- 
difference, and without even raising her- 
self up. 

“ Cruel girl !” exclaimed he, “how you 
have made me suffer !” 

“ Why didn’t you return sooner ?” 

“ I was expecting a word from you, — 
I was hoping ” 

“ You would have waited a long time. 
I never yield. You must yield to me. 
You have due notice. Hereafter, when 
I shall flog my slaves, you will have the 
politeness to look at me in silence.” 

“ Never !” 

“ I have a good mind to try it. I will 
bet you would remain, you would be so 
much afraid of passing a night like the 
day that has just passed. Noun,” said 
she, addressing her mulatto girl, who 
stood listening with terror, “ go and get 
my whip ; I have not been pleased with 
you ; you deserve another whipping.” 

The girl obeyed. She knew, from long 
experience, that Cora could not be dis- 
obeyed with impunity. 

“ Now,” continued she, still carelessly 
stretched at length in her hammock, 
“ down on your knees.” 


m 


30 


ARTICLE kl. 


Then turning to George : 

“ Come, start yourself, for I am going 
to whip her. But I wish you to under- 
stand that my door will be shut against 
you for eight days.” 

“I remain,” said he-, “but pray spare 
that girl.” 

“ Be it so. But remember, no more of 
your remarks, no more resistance, and 
no more revolt. Ought you not to obey 
me?” added she, leaning towards him and 
caressing with one of her most languishing 
looks, “am I not your mistress?” 

Noun, overjoyed, went and put the 
whip in its well-known place, and hast- 
ened to leave the room, for fear that some 
new fancy might get possession of her 
mistress. 

This evening was the more agreeable, 
as the forenoon had been so unpleasant 
and agitated. With a woman like Cora, 
the reconciliation that follows a quarrel 
is always delicious. In the intoxication 
of remembrance, George did not even 
think, on the next and following days, of 
drawing any inference from what he had 
learnt about Cora. 

But some time after, when she became 
completely developed morally, when he 
was obliged to yield to evidence, and no 
illusion in regard to her was any longer 
possible, he satisfied himself with uttering 
these words, so often pronounced by all 
unfortunate men, whom passion rules, and 
who have no longer a consciousness of 
their cowardice or weakness: “What is 
to be done ? I cannot do without her.” 

Soon she took pleasure in torturing 
him in his love, and rendering him jeal- 
ous even to delirium. 

She did not go so far as to deceive him, 
she was too shrewd to commit such a 
fault. She knew that in the exercise of 
tyranny one must know how to stop 
within certain limits. There are punish- 
ments which the most docile and submis- 
sive slave cannot endure. He suddenly 
rebels. A flash is seen in his eye, which 
seemed asleep, he breaks his chains and 
smites his master. 


If Cora was too hard upon him, if she 
dared make him experience one of those 
insults which an honorable man cannot 
endure, George could free himself from 
his weakness, shun the house of the un- 
faithful, and in order to be no more 
tempted to return to it, could suddenly 
leave New Orleans by one of the numer- 
ous ships which America sends every day 
to Europe. 

Then she would never see that France 
so much desired, and which he had prom- 
ised to make her acquainted with 1 She 
would no more see him, whom she loved, 
perhaps. 

But, without deceiving him, she knew 
how to inspire him with a thousand fears 
and keep his jealousy constantly on the 
alert. 

One evening, as they were walking 
along New Orleans Street, and had 
stopped in front of a gunsmith’s shop, 
she suddenly said to him, — 

“ Buy me a revolver.” 

“ What will you do with it?” asked he, 
smiling. 

“ I will tell you hereafter. Buy it.” 

When they had returned to the house 
in St. Philip Street, she loaded her re- 
volver, put it on the mantel-piece, and 
said to George, — 

“ This fire-arm is destined for you. It 
shall never leave me. I shall carry it 
with me to France 5 and if it should ever 
happen to you to deceive me, I will blow 
your brains out!” added she, with a smile. 

He swore he would run no risk, and 
thought that pleasantry very original. 

This voyage to France, so often men- 
tioned between them, and which was to 
take place during the first months of 
their acquaintance, was retarded by a 
long illness of Monsieur Du Hamel. 

He had to pay to the yellow fever the 
tribute demanded of every European, 
sooner or later, who settles in certain 
parts of America. 

It seized him with extreme violence. 
He did not succumb to the first attack, 
but he could never entirely recover. 


THE GIRL OF COLOR. 


31 


He continued to grow weaker every 
day, and, after a long suffering, died in 
the arms of his son. 

Having settled his father’s affairs, 
George, whom nothing retained any 
longer in America, but whom, on the 
contrary, everything invited to France, 
embarked with Cora on board the Zurich. 

In the first chapters of this story we 
have seen him arrive at Havre and shut 
himself up in a room of the Admiralty 
Hotel, whilst Cora, who had already made 
a conquest of the son of a ship-owner in 
Havre, Victor Mazilier, was going with 
this young man towards the custom-house 
buildings. 


XIVT. 

Victor Mazilier had shown Cora into 
one of the halls of the custom-house, and 
while waiting till his companion should 
be called to open her trunks, he endeav- 
ored to amuse and bewilder her by a 
sample of his most fantastic conversation. 

“ So, madame,” said he, in that nice 
and pretentious tone which was peculiar 
to him, ‘‘you only cross Havre? But 
allow me to tell you that with the excep- 
tion of Paris Street and the landing-places, 
which are rather animated, Havre is a 
provincial town like all the rest, and I 
abhor a province. But you might spend 
a couple of weeks or so here, without 
being very much displeased. There are 
some ten or a dozen of us young men 
here, of good families, who would take 
great pleasure in offering you any number 
of amusements while you remain.” 

“I have no doubt of it,” replied Cora, 
with a smile ; “ but ” 

“ But you prefer to go to Paris. That 
is what I regret on your own account. 
If we were in the month of January, I 
should approve of your preference, and 
should even ask permission to leave you 
for a moment, in order to run home 
and put some thousand-franc bills in my 


pocket-book, and order my servant to 
pack my valise.” 

“ And what for?” asked Cora. 

“ In order to follow you, to be sure 1 
Do you think that, after seeing you, I 
should consent to leave you? It is im- 
possible.” 

She wished to interrupt him, but he 
continued : 

“ I said I should approve of your leav- 
ing for Paris, if we were in the month of 
January •, but we are in the month of 
June, the hottest part of the year, and 
nobody leaves Havre, where we enjoy, 
thanks to the sea, a temperate climate, in 
order to go to Paris, which is a furnace. 
It would be in very bad taste. My friends 
of the circle would not pardon it in me. 
They would say, ‘ Where, pray, is Mazi- 
lier ?’ ‘ He has left for Paris.’ ‘ Indeed ? 

It is incredible; he has no longer any 
respect for himself; he is bound to lose 
his reputation as a gentleman.’ Such are 
the remarks that would be made about 
me ; and you understand well, madame, 
— and, by the way, while I think of it, 
ought I to say madame or mademoiselle?” 

“ Madame,” replied Cora. 

“And you understand, madame^" con- 
tinued young Mazilier, flourishing his 
cane in his habitual style, “that I would 
not wish to run the risk of producing so 
bad an impression.” 

“ But, sir, I don’t ask you to accompany 
me,” said Cora. 

“ Very true, you don’t ask it.* But 
allow me to say, that if I wished to follow 
you, I should not be so foolish as to con- 
sult you about it. I would take the same 
train with you, would get into the same 
car, and would offer you a couverture de 
voyage, which — you would refuse, and — 
what is the use of saying all that? / 
cannot go to Paris at present, and you 
are not to go.” 

“ How! I am not — who will prevent it?” 

“You will abandon the idea yourself. 
You must learn, madame, that Paris is 
not in Paris in the month of June; in 
other words, Paris is not at home in that 


32 


ARTICLE 


month. It is at the springs, the sea- 
bathing places, and in the country gener- 
ally. A charming woman like you, — a 
woman who respects herself, — waits till 
winter in order to make her first appear- 
ance in elegant and fashionable life. 
Whom will you meet there at this season 
of the year ? I ask you. It is only the 
common people, the counting-room and 
lawyers’ clerks, and such as are obliged 
to remain there. You will not know 
whom to speak to. It is my duty to give 
you some instruction on this^ subject. 
You are fresh from America ; you are 
not acquainted with the usages of our 
country ; my good star has caused me to 
fall in with you, and I find you adorable, 
charming, and ” 

“ It seems to me that some one is call- 
ing for me to open my trunks,” said Cora. 

“No, no ; don’t trouble yourself about 
that ; you will be informed in time. 
Havre,” continued he, with the same 
aplomb^ while pursuing his idea and look- 
ing at Cora from the corner of his eye to 
see what effect he was going to produce, 
— “ Havre is at this time as full and as 
animated as Paris is deserted. ‘ Yes, the 
hotels are swarming with the elegant and 
the rich, the millionaires. Why, at the 
European Hotel, where I breakfasted this 
morning, there were two members of the 
Jockey Club and several bankers of the 
first class. One would not find so many 
between the Elysian Fields and Peletier 
Street. But what we lack here, you know, 
is pretty women. Now and then, one, 
here and there, it is true, is to be met 
with, and that is all. So we are disposed 
to do all the silly things in the world in 
order to ” 

He was fortunately interrupted right 
in the midst of this sentence, which threat- 
ened to be a little too clear. An officer 
of the custom-house came to inform Cora 
that there remained only her baggage to 
be examined. 

Victor Mazilier hastened to follow her. 
On his way he congratulated himself on 
his perspicacity. 


“ I was not mistaken,” said he to him- 
self. “ She is one of the numerous women 
whom America sends over to us every 
year. She comes to seek a fortune in 
France ; and as the passage is costly, and 
she had need of a traveling companion, 
she fell in love with some brave young 
man whom her beautiful eyes had led 
astray. But now she is in port ; and a 
person well-situated and good-looking, 
like myself for example, who should pay 
attention to her, would stand a good chance 
to supplant the traveling companion.” 

This reasoning was not absolutely false, 
it was only exaggerated. 

In the first place, Cora, before leaving 
New Orleans, had sold her house in St. 
Philip Street, her garden, her slaves, her 
old negro, negress, and her two mulatto 
girls. She had realized from this sale a 
considerable sum, with which she bought 
drafts to carry with her ; and thanks to 
this little fortune, hejr conquest was not 
so easy as Victor Mazilier would have 
liked to believe. 

And then, secondly, she had not decided 
to abandon George du Hamel, to whom 
mysterious affections bound her still. And 
were not, moreover, the most of her plans 
for the future based upon the unfortunate 
passion with which she had inspired that 
young man? 

But she was not decided to love him ex- 
clusively, as she had done at New Orleans.. 

France was, for her, a sort of promised 
land, where she hoped to enjoy of every 
kind of pleasure. Beautiful, young, se- 
ductive to the utmost, sufficiently intelli- 
gent, as morally corrupt as the most im- 
moral could desire, without prejudices 
and without scruples, ready for all sacri- 
fices that could be turned to her account, 
she was prepared to aim at any object she 
wished to accomplish, and in most cases 
to command success. 

At sunset, under the orange-trees of her 
garden, indolently reclining in her ham- 
mock, rocked by one of her pretty mulat- 
tresses and fanned by the other, she could 
not help indulging in sweet reveries, and 


THE GIRL OF COLOR. 


33 


in seeing herself installed some day in 
, Paris, the city of all wonders, in a rich 
apartment, Avith gilt ceiling and wainscot- 
ing ; AA^hen a splendid carriage Avould be 
waiting for her in the street to take her 
to the AYOods of Boulogne! — that place 
which all women beyond the ocean talk 
about and seem to grudge us, although 
they haA^e Aurgin forests at their doors. 

She would arrive at the Avoods draAvn 
by blood-horses, — Avould exchange saluta- 
tions and smiles with men of fashion, 
with rich and fashionable women, Avith 
icliite Avomen. In the evening she AVOuld 
take her place in the Italian theatre, or at 
the opera, in a first-class box, she who, up 
to the present time, had witnessed theat- 
rical exhibitions only in the third roAV. 

In order to realize completely this fine 
dream, it was not sufficient to be in France, 
it was necessary to be rich and arrive at 
that degree of genteel celebrity which cer- 
tain women so ardently desire. 

The officiousness and civility of Victor 
Mazilier had not been unappreciated by 
Cora. From her first step on the soil of 
France, and her first glance cast upon the 
crowd, a man who appeared to be well 
educated, and said that he was rich, was 
eager to come to her aid if she needed it. 
It Avas a début, or beginning, full of 
promise for the future. She confessed to 
herself even, that her new companion ex- 
pressed himself well, and that his propo- 
sitions deserved serious attention. Paris, 
said he, Avas deserted in the month of 
June, and it was in bad taste to live there. 
Why, then, did George wish to take her 
there ? It was, no doubt, to shut her up 
in some small furnished room, and to 
profit by the fact that she would have no 
acquaintance with others, and to over- 
Avhelm her with his love. Would it not 
be preferable for her to remain some weeks 
in IlaAwe, in the open air, in company 
Avith the young ship-owner and the ami- 
able capitalists of whom he had spoken ? 


At the same time she was indulg- 
ing in these reflections, Cora AA^as point- 
ing out her baggage for the investigations 
of the custom-house. Victor Mazilier, 
standing by her side, cast a glance into 
the bottom of the trunks, Avhich the offi- 
cers of the custom-house, Avithout paying 
any regard to his recommendations, Avere 
rummaging over with a zeal and con- 
science quite remarkable. 

‘‘'•Diable, diable!" said Victor to him- 
self, “ what a quantity of linen she has, 
and how well ofi" she must be! Her con- 
quest might present some difficulties.” 

When Cora had finished showing her 
OAvn trunks, it was necessary to think of 
those of George, as he had put them un- 
der her charge and she had the keys. 

“Ah!” said Victor again to himself, 
“ the vieAv changes. Petticoats are suc- 
ceeded by waistcoats, and robes by dress- 
coats. These belong to the traveling 
companion. Let us see if he is conven- 
iently rigged out with everything.” 

Victor stood tiptoe in order to see, and 
to the great displeasure of Cora, who tried 
in vain to distract his attention from the 
trunks. 

. “ Lots of cravats, linen shirts, embroi- 
dered handkerchiefs, a magnificently 
furnished toilet-case, a glove-box from 
Tahan’s. Decidededly, it Avill be neces- 
sary for me to go to considerable ex- 
pense in order to succeed him. But, for 
a woman like this, I am ready for any 
sacrifice ; and, in case of necessity, I would 
even ruin my father.” 

When the custom-house inspection was 
over, Victor, still busy and civil, ordered 
the baggage to be put in a hand-cart, and 
inquired of Cora her address, 

“Right opposite.; India Hotel,” replied 
she. 

And while following the baggage to 
the hotel, Victor, seeing the time when 
his companion would escape him, made 
desperate efforts to retain her. 

“Madame,” said he, “you will not 


3 


34 


ARTICLE 47. 


leave me thus? you will not quit Havre 
without at least having visited it? After 
all I have told you about Paris, you will 
not go to live there at this season of the 
year?” 

She turned around and answered him 
bravely, — 

“You well know that I am not travel- 
ing alone. You have had a chance to see 
that one half of these trunks are not 
mine.” 

He thought he ought to appear aston- 
ished. 

“ Indeed !” said he. “ To whom do they 
belong ?” 

“ To a person who came from New Or- 
leans with me.” 

“And does he abandon you thus on the 
moment of your landing, in a country 
you are unacquainted with ? Pray is he 
sick ?” 

“ On the contrary, he is perfectly well.” 

“ Then, does he not love you ?” 

“ Oh, yes,” murmured she. 

The tone in which these two words were 
pronounced was sufficient to give to Vic- 
tor an idea of the state in which Cora’s 
heart was. It was evident to him that 
she was attached to her traveling com- 
panion only by very feeble ties. 

“Would it be improper,” said Victor, 
encouraged by the tone of Cora’s answer 
to the question just put to her, “would it 
be indiscreet, to ask of you the name of 
the person we are speaking of?” 

“What is the use?” said she-, “you 
cannot be acquainted with him.” 

“ It is very probable that I am, on the 
contrary. My father’s ships go often to 
New Orleans ; I am very intimate with 
the captains who command them, and they 
keep me well posted up about everything 
which takes place there. And besides, 
dear madame, it is very easy for me to 
get a list of the passengers of the Zurich.” 

“ You need not be at that trouble,” said 
she ; “ the name of my compagnon de voy- 
age is George du Hamel.” 

“George du Hamel — wait — I know 
that. Why, yes, I am not mistaken. 


He is a Frenchman. I have heard a good 
deal said about him. Under what circum- 
stances? — It was about a duel, if I am 
not mistaken — a duel with — that’s it, 
I’ve got it. He fought a duel with a Cre- 
ole of New Orleans, and killed him. Ah, 
yes, I know all about him. He has been 
much talked of about here, and there has 
been many a dispute on his account. 
Some said that he was wrong, others 
maintained that he was right. But I 
argued that he was in the wrong, because 
a man of the world, a gentleman, never 
fights a duel on account of a fille de cou- 
leur, or girl of color. Is not that your 
opinion, madame?” 

“Exactly,” said Cora, boldly. 

These words of Victor Mazilier, far 
from hurting her feelings, were only a 
new and unexpected compliment to her 
art and address. They proved that he had 
not the least suspicion of her origin. 

But what did she care now for what 
might be said for or against women of 
color, or women supposed to have a few 
drops of African blood in their veins, and 
those perhaps derived from a great-great- 
grandmother, as in her case ? For since 
she landed in Europe she was no longer a 
part of that despised and unfortunate race ; 
and if she was, nobody knew it, and no 
one would suspect it either from her 
manners or her looks. 

“Ah, ah!” resumed .Mazilier, “that is 
the famous George du Hamel, — a hand- 
some fellow, I have been told, — but without 
great elegance, without — I beg pardon,” 
said he, checking himself, “ my frankness 
is carrying me too far, and I am afraid I 
may displease you.” 

“ Pray go on,” said she, encouraging 
him by a look. 

She had just denied her caste and her 
blood, she might as well now abjure her 
lover. 

Thus encouraged, Victor continued : 

“ George du Hamel, if I am not mis- 
taken, is the son of a gentleman who, 
after dissipating his fortune in France, 
went off to New Orleans to go into trade 


THE GIRL OF COLOR. 


35 


in which he sold almost everything, both 
by wholesale and by retail. This did not 
prevent him, I know, from being received 
in society ; for in America they have no 
prejudices on this subject, and any kind 
of necessary and useful business is re- 
spected. But in France the case is dif- 
ferent.” 

Each of these phrases contained an in- 
direct attack upon the social standing of 
George, and Cora was intensely interested 
in all that he said -, and the more so be- 
cause her self-love had always been 
wounded from infancy on account of her 
origin ; and if she was still to be excluded 
from the best society by reason of George’s 
standing, the sooner she knew it the 
better. 

“Ah,” resumed Victor, “you are then 
going both of you to live in Paris. Bravo ! 
You will take up your lodgings doubtless 
in a very retired and unfashionable quar- 
ter. I can see that from here. A small 
apartment in the fourth story, with a wo- 
man to do everything. You will go some- 
times to the theatre, and take a seat in the 
back part of the parterre, or in the gal- 
lery. In the summer, instead of breath- 
ing the open air as here, instead of sea- 
bathing and the watering-places, you will 
sometimes, on a Sunday, make an excur- 
sion in a second-class car upon the Auteuil 
Railroad. Ah, it is dear, living in Paris ! 
One must live on privations, if he does 
not enjoy an ample fortune, and that of 
Monsieur Du Hamel cannot be consider- 
able. I can guess the amount of it. It 
is true that you love one another,” added 
he, with a hypocritical sigh.’ 

Cora looked at him and smiled. 

The baggage had for a long time been 
unloaded, and they continued talking on 
the threshold of the hotel. 

In the state of mind in which Cora then 
was, this conversation was very pleasing. 
Victor Mazilier was initiating her in all 
the details of that life of dissipation and 
luxury which she was so desirous of be- 
coming acquainted with. He gave to her 
the names of celebrated men and fashion- 


able women, and taught her by what 
means one may, in a short time, take rank 
in a certain class of Parisian society. 

“ The time is admirably chosen,” said 
he, “ to create for one’s self a position. 
All our old celebrities are marching with 
rapid steps towards an amiable decrepi- 
tude. Oh, if in the beginning of winter, 
about the month of October,” added he, 
looking at Cora, “ a true woman, well 
situated, well developed, a beautiful bru- 
nette, with expressive eyes and mouth, 
with that sweet foreign accent that we 
love so much, should make her first ap- 
pearance in Paris, under the patronage of 
all the rich and elegant who had previ- 
ously made her acquaintance, what a suc- 
cess and what a fortune could I predict 
to such a woman !” 

The skillful deceiver continued in this 
strain ; and as the hour Avas advancing, 
and George did not return, Cora, who was 
afraid of becoming discontented alone in 
her hotel, had finally concluded to take 
the arm of Victor Mazilier. 

They went away on foot, walking to- 
gether up Paris Street, stopping now and 
then in front of the shops to admire the 
rich variety of articles for sale. 

Soon she became fatigued, and was 
obliged to accept a carriage offered her 
by her companion. 

“ I am going to show you the coast of 
Ingouville,” said he ; “ it is Avonderful. 
There are there charming estates, occu- 
pied by millionaires, Avho ask for nothing 
more than to devour their millions. I 
can introduce you to all of. them. And 
what would I not do to make myself 
agreeable to you ? You are so charming ! 
I have loved you from the moment I first 
saw you.” 

“ Don’t talk to me in this way ; I for- 
bid it,” said she; “cease, or I return 
immediately to my hotel.” 


36 


ARTICLE J^7. 


-X.'V’XIL. 

Meanwhile, George, who had escaped 
from the embraces of his mother, ran to 
the India Hotel and asked for the lady 
who had just landed from the Zurich. 

“We saw her leave,” replied one, “in 
the direction of Paris Street, in the com- 
pany of the young man who sent her 
baggage up to her room.” 

'''"What young man?” said George to 
himself, who felt that he was turning- 
pale. “ She told me she was not ac- 
quainted with any one in France.” 

At eight o’clock in the evening Cora 
had not returned, and Géorge, who had 
caused her room to be opened, was wait- 
ing for her. 

Twice, not being able to stay in one 
place, impatient, feverish, and jealous, he 
had gone out and ran rapidly through the 
principal streets of Havre. He saw her 
nowhere, and had returned hastily, hoping 
she had come in during his absence. 
He passed the hotel office without making 
any inquiry, went rapidly up-stairs, 
opened her door, looked around, — nobody 
there ! 

He knew he was expected by his 
mother, but he had not the courage to 
rejoin her. What could he have said to 
her? Could he have talked with her, as in 
the morning, of the five years that had 
just elapsed ? could he answer the thou- 
sand questions which she did not cease to 
ask ? could he question her, in his turn, 
press her to his bosom, and form plans for 
the future? 

No. His thoughts would no longer 
have been with her. He would not have 
ceased to think of Cora, and to ask him- 
self what had become of her. Jealousy 
allows not a moment of rest ; as soon as 
it enters a heart it reigns there as sov- 
ereign, and renders it insensible to every- 
thing that is not directly attached to the 
person beloved. 

How many sad thoughts and rash pro- 
jects crossed his mind during these few 
hours! He saw himself already deceived 


and abandoned. He would call to ac- 
count the young man of whom the hotel 
clerk spoke. He would fight a duel with 
him, and kill him as he did John de B . 

Or else, as life for him would be insup- 
portable without Cora, as he felt that he 
loved her to madness and could not do 
without her, he would kill himself ; yes, 
he would kill himself under her own eyes, 
that his blood might spirt into her face. 

He also asked himself, in his madness, 
if he should not kill her. Why not ? 
They were not married. The law gave 
him no right over her, but morally was 
she not his wife ? Did she not belong to 
him ? Did not sacred ties bind them to 
one another? What! could she inflict 
upon him ’a thousand punishments, tor- 
ture him without mercy, make him suffer 
as he did at that moment, strike him to 
the heart, and he not haA'^e the right, in 
his turn, to avenge himself, to punish her, 
and return blow for bloAV, and wound for 
wound ? 

“ No,” said he, again ; “ I Avill not seek 
revenge, I will not strike her, — I will 
quit her, I Avill leave her here alone, and 
start this very evening for Paris. She is 
a miserable woman ! Have I not known 
her for a long time? I will see her no 
more. I have waited for her long enough. 
I will go.” 

He went to the door, opened it, went 
down one story, and suddenly returned 
hastily back. 

“No, no,” said he ; “I must wait for 
her, in order to cast her infamy in her 
face, and tell her that she will see me no 
more.” 

But suddenly a carriage stopped on the 
wharf, at the door of the hotel. 

“It is she,” thought he; his paleness 
diminished, and his heart-beats were 
more lively. 

In a moment he had already found a 
thousand reasons for excusing and pardon- 
ing her. 

He ran to the door and looked. 

It was not she. 

He recommenced walking across the 


THE GIRL OF COLOR. 


37 


room. Soon he heard a noise on the 
stairs, and thought he recognized Cora’s 
step. 

Then he took a chair, lighted a cigar, 
and tried to extemporize a tranquil and 
smiling face. 

lie was not willing she should guess at 
the anguish through which he had passed. 
He desired to question her calmly and 
almost with indifference, in order that she 
might ignore the influence she exerted 
over him, and might not he tempted to 
abuse it. 

But the person who was coming up the 
stairs did not stop at the door ; the sound 
of footsteps continued, and was soon lost 
in the distance. 

George’s smile' vanished. His color, 
which had returned, disappeared ; and in 
a fit of despair, exhausted by these alter- 
nations of fear and hope, broken down 
and enervated, he burst into tears. 

At ten o’clock the door opened and 
Cora appeared. 

As a contrast to George’s paleness, her 
complexion was very animated, and she 
appeared still more charming than usual. 

Some locks of disordered hair had es- 
caped from beneath her bonnet, and fell 
upon her neck. A beautiful smile played 
about her lips ; and there was in her gait, 
usually languid, something spirited and 
resolute which was pleasing to see. 

But George perceived nothing of all 
this. Grave, sad, and severe, standing 
near the fireplace, he waited for the door 
to shut after Cora, and said, — 

“Where do you come from?” 

“ From dinner,” replied she, cheerfully ; 
“ and from a very good dinner, too, in 
one of the first restaurants of Havre. 
Your French cooking is decidedly superior 
to the American.” 

“Did you dine alone?” 

“ Alone ! Can you think of such a 
thing ?” 

^ “ With whom did you dine?” 

“ With a charming young man, whose 
acquaintance I made a few minutes after 
you left me. He is very intelligent and 


amiable, and has been very serviceable to 
me all day.” 

He interrupted her by saying, — 

“ And so.you believe that a woman who 
respects herself can walk or ride all day, 
and dine at a restaurant with the first 
man she happens to meet with?” 

“Why not?” asked she, taking from 
her pocket a bunch of keys and opening 
one of her trunks. 

“ Because that cannot be done.” 

“ It is certain,” replied Cora, “ that I 
should not have thought of accepting the 
kind services of that gentleman if you 
had been with me. But you leave me 
alone, in company with my trunks and 
yours, and you disappear ” 

“ I was with my mother, and you 
knew it.” 

“ What is your mother to me, or I to 
your mother? I was alone for all that.” 

He suppressed an emotion of anger, 
and replied, — 

“You could certainly stay alone for a 
few minutes ; I was here at four o’clock.” 

“ And 7, at four,” said she, with one of 
her charming smiles, “ was on my way in 
a carriage to Ingouville. One has there 
a magnificent prospect ; and if you have 
never seen it, I would commend it to your 
notice.” 

He could no longer restrain himself, 
and exclaimed, — 

“ But, unfortunate woman, you do not 
know what I have suffered during the 
hours just elapsed, whilst you were thus 
tête-à-tête with an unknown man.” 

She had just found the article she had 
for a moment been looking for ; she took 
it from the trunk ; and, while going to 
put it on a table, said quietly to George, — 

“ I beg of you, my dear friend, do not 
recommence in France the scenes you 
enacted in America. I am no longer in 
a humor to put up with them. And be- 
sides, it is late. I feel the need of sleep.” 

He remained silent for a moment, 
walked backward and forward in the 
room in order to tone down his excite- 
ment, and finally said to Cora, — 


38 


ARTICLE J^7. 


“ You know we leave to-morrow noon.” 

“For where?” asked she. 

“For Paris.” * 

“Who decided upon that?” 

“Was it not agreed ’upon that we 
should stay hardly a day in Havre?” 

“ Yes, but I had imagined it was a 
dirty, miserable, disagreeable place ; but, 
on the contrary, I have found here beau- 
tiful promenades, and people anxious to 
please me in every way -, I have decided 
to remain.” 

“ I cannot,” said he, with an effort at 
self-control, “allow my mother to return 
alone to Paris.” 

“ Very well ; go back with her, then.” 

“ And you will remain with your new 
companion, will you not?” 

“Why not?” 

So much coldness and cynicism had 
shocked him. He was beside himself. 

Terrible and threatening, he advanced 
towards her. 

His active brain, his young blood, 
heated by a long sea-passage, were bad 
counselors, and might impel him to some 
painful extremity. 

Suddenly, however, he stopped. He 
had just said to himself that an impru- 
dent word, a threat, a gesture, might 
alienate forever that heart already in- 
clined to leave him ; one rash word, or 
movement, might be sufficient to separate 
him forever from that woman who was 
his life, that woman whom he knew from 
experience he could not dispense with. 

“ And so,” said he, when he had become 
master of himself again, “ you remain in 
Havre?” 

“ Yes, for awhile.” 

“ Do you know if your sojourn here 
will be long?” 

“I don’t know. That will depend on 
the amusements that may be offered me 
here.” 

“ Very well -, I am now fully informed.” 

He reflected, seemed to be making a 
difficult decision, and said, — 

“ I will go and see my mother again, 
and inform her of my new plans.” 


“What plans?” 

“ I shall not accompany her to Paris, 
but remain in Havre.” 

“Ah I” said she. “You remain? I did 
not expect it. And what reason will you 
give your mother for letting her go off 
alone ?” 

“ I don’t know. I will think about it.” 

“ That will be very sad for her.” 

“ It will be sad for me too, believe me; 
but you constrain me to take this course.” 

“Not in the least. Go with your 
mother to Paris, and I will join you 
there.” 

“ No,” said he, “ I have not the courage 
to leave you in the state of mind in which 
you appear to be at present.” 

“As you please, and -good-night; I am 
dying with fatigue,” added she. 

“ Good-night,” said he, mildly. 

Just as he got to the door she said to 
him, — 

“ By the way, is one safe in the hotel 
rooms in France ?” 

“ Very nearly.” 

“ The reason I ask is, that I have prop- 
erty with me, as you know, to the amount 
of more than sixty thousand francs, in 
drafts on bankers in Paris.” 

“ If you are afraid, give them to me.” 

“ Here,” said she, handing him a small 
pocket-book. “You will return it to me 
to-morrow. But, now I think of it,” 
added she, “ if any one should attempt to 
rob me I can defend myself. Have I not 
in one of my trunks the revolver you gave 
me? Be kind enough to take it from the 
leather valise there, — that’s it, — and put 
it near my bed, on the table, within reach 
of my hand. Very well, thank you.” 

“ Shall I hand you back the drafts?” 

“No ; keep them, since you have them. 
This revolver,” said she, smiling, “will be 
of use only to protect my person, should 
it be attacked.” 

The few words which had just been ex- 
changed afforded a diversion to the pre- 
ceding scene. Already George felt less 
irritated, and was ready to pardon per- 
haps, if she had wished it. 


THE GIRL OF COLOR. 


39 


lie took her hand, but she quickly with- 
drew it, saying, — 

“No, no, no fondness. I am sleepy. 
Good-night.” 

George left, but felt grieved. 

But what was he to say to his mother 
in explanation of his long absence ? IIow 
especially inform her that he should re- 
main in Havre? 


Madame Du Hamel had not gone to 
bed, but was waiting at the window. 

At first she was astonished at not see- 
ing him return. To her astonishment 
succeeded inquietude. She had been se- 
riously alarmed from the beginning of the 
evening. 

“ What has happened to you ?” said 
she, when he had rejoined her : “ you 

leave me for a moment, and Ah, it is 

too bad ! on a day like this.” 

He was going to reply, to give some ex- 
planation, or invent some story. 

He was ashamed to tell a falsehood to 
his mother. 

And then, if fortunate lovers have no 
need of a confidant, they who sufier, they 
whose hearts are broken, are in some sort 
compelled to proclaim their grief They 
cannot suppress it, for it would sufiocate 
them. 

Madame Du Hamel had always been a 
friend for her son. He had imparted to 
her all his secrets when a child. And 
later, in that charming language invented 
by sons to talk of all things with their 
mother, without wounding delicacy, he 
had told her all his secrets as a young 
man. Why, notwithstanding the lapse of 
five years, should they not resume their 
life where they had left it ? Why should 
the grown man be less communicative 
than when he was younger? 

“ Don’t question me,” said George, drop- 
ping into a chair, “ I know not what to 
answer. I am very unhappy.” 


She rushed towards him, and taking 
both of his hands, while looking him in 
the eye, she said, — 

“What is the matter with you, my 
child?” 

And as he still hesitated to answer : 

“Am I no longer your friend, your 
sister?” said she. “ Have you forgotten 
our long conversations of former days? 
Do you fear my remonstrances ? I have 
never given you any but good advice, my 
child. Speak without fear, your sorrows 
are my sorrows : they belong to me. Tell 
me the whole. I shall be able to hear and 
understand the whole.” 

He obeyed, and related to her his whole 
life at New Orleans, from his terrible duel 

with John de B . He told her how 

he had been led to his alliance with Cora. 
In a few Avords he described her physi- 
cally and morally. He told her how he had 
been obliged to bring her to France, how 
she had conducted herself during the pas- 
sage ; her flirting with the passengers and 
officers on board, and finally her disgrace- 
ful behavior since her arrival in Havre. 

“ Ah,” exclaimed he, when he had 
ended this long recital, “ I despise her and 
love her ! I hate her and I adore her ! 
You cannot understand me, dear mother; 
honest people will never admit such sen- 
timents or feelings, and yet they exist, 
since I feel them. You cannot imao-ine 
the influence that woman has gained over 
my reason and my heart. My father, at 
the time of his death, made me promise 
that I would not take her to France. AY ell, 
I have brought her, and broken one of the 
most sacred of oaths. Do you believe now 
in my love for her,? And she does not love 
me. No. I had still preserved some illu- 
sions ; they have been dissipated to-day. 
Ah, how happy she would be to see me 
leave for Paris, and be left alone here 
without me!” 

She interrupted him, saying, — 

“What! do you not leave to-morrow 
with me?” 

He took her in his arms, covered her 
with kisses, and said, — 


40 


ARTICLE 47. 


“Ah, it is too had, I know ! I have 
hardly met you again, and to think of 
separating from you ! But if I go away, 
if I leave her alone even a single day, she 
will he stolen from me, she is so beauti- 
ful ! Allow me to defend my property 
and take her with me to Paris. Perhaps 
all is not lost, perhaps there is still at the 
bottom of her heart a remnant of affec- 
tion for me, — perhaps I exaggerate her 
faults. And then, at Paris, when I shall 
he near you, and shall have resumed my 
good habits of former times, I shall have 
more courage to leave her. Here, it is im- 
possible ! Do not ask me to do it.” 

“ Ah, unfortunate child !” said she, “ I 
would request it of you on my knees, if I 
could hope that my prayers and my tears 
would persuade you ! What would I not 
do, if I could pluck you from the danger 
in which you are ? You are lost, lost, if 
you do not succeed in conquering that 
fatal passion !” 

“ I will conquer it, my dear mother. I 
solemnly promise you.” 

“ Then I will not leave, but remain 
with you. I wish to give you strength 
against yourself. My entreaties will end, 
I hope, in affecting 3"ou so that you will 
return to your mother. You cannot have 
been spared to me during a long and dan- 
gerous absence, that I might lose you at 
last in a disgraceful way.” 

They continued to talk for a long time ; 
and the day was beginning to dawn, when 
they both retired to take a little rest. 


xiix:. 

The next day, at nine o’clock in the 
morning, George entered his mother’s 
room. 

Madame Du Hamel was already up. 

“ Why ! I hoped, as formerly, to have 
the pleasure of awakening you,” said he, 
embracing her. 

She was unwilling to confess to him 


that she had not slept a wink for the 
night, and answered, — 

“ How happy I should be this morning, 
were it not for the frightful revelations 
you made to me last evening!” 

“ Do not be alarmed, dear mother,” 
said he : “ perhaps the danger is not so 
great, after all. I was sick yesterday, 
and half crazy. This morning I feel bet- 
ter. I look at things more coolly, and 
am a little less uneasy.” 

“ Do you still hope that she loves you, 
and that you can win her back ?” 

“ Not at all. I hope simply, thanks to 
your affection, and a little to my reason, 
to be able to do without her.” 

“ Oh, my child ! if you were but speak- 
ing from the heart.” 

“ Last night, after leaving you, I re- 
viewed my life with this woman for the 
last two years. With the exception per- 
haps of the first six months, this life 
was a veritable martyrdom. I know not 
where I found the strength, or rather the 
weakness, to bear what I have from her. 
If I do not make an energetic resolution, 
I shall run, as you said yesterday, into 
real danger. In a moment of anger, I 
feel that I may go to some extremity.” 

“ What do you say ?” 

“ Be not alarmed. I am now reason- 
ing coolly on my situation, and think I 
am now out of danger.” 

“ Then we leave to-day? This morning 
even, shall we not?” 

“ No, not this morning ; but perhaps 
this evening.” 

“Be careful not to fail,” exclaimed she. 

“ No, keep quiet.” 

“ I pray you,” said she, as if a sort of 
presentiment troubled her, “ let us go to- 
day noon, as we had intended to-, don’t 
see her again !” 

“ It is impossible, dear mother ; for I 
have, in the first place, to put into her 
hands some important papers which I 
cannot confide to another. In the second 
place, I wish to see her, speak to her, and 
tell her that she can no longer count upon 
me.” 


THE GIRL OF COLOR. 


41 


“Ah, you still hope! you think your 
conversation wûll lead her to reflection.” 

“ I declare to you that I do not. My 
course has been decided upon. Give me 
but this day, and to-morrow I am yours 
entirely, and your son will have been re- 
stored to you." 

When he left his mother he had almost 
reassured her; he appeared so calm, so 
persuaded of the necessity of a rupture, 
and so decided to provoke it. 

“ Return soon,” said she, as she accom- 
panied him to the head of the stairs ; 
“ you have promised me.” 

“ I will keep my promise. I love you, 
good mother,” added he, tossing her a 
kiss from his hand. 

He was in good earnest, and was decided 
to break his chain and become free again. 

It was in this state of mind that he 
knocked, a few minutes after, at Cora’s 
door. 

“Walk in,” said a voice. 

lie went in. 

Cora, in full dress, notwithstanding the 
early hour, was preparing to go out. She 
was splendidly dressed, not perhaps in 
the latest Parisian fashion, but in exqui- 
site taste. 

The excellent night’s rest she had 
enjoyed had restored her complexion, 
given to her eyes their languid expres- 
sion, and reddened her lips. 

Her dress was admirably adapted to 
exhibit the elegance of her figure in all 
respects heretofore mentioned in our story. 

George had never before seen her so 
beautiful, so complete. At New Orleans 
she used to go out very rarely, and spent 
almost every day in loose dresses, — a sort 
of large, flowing rohe de chambre in use 
in that country. At sea she had from 
necessity paid but little attention to her 
toilette. On the day of her landing she 
was also in deshabille ; so that on this oc- 
casion she revealed herself to George 
under a new aspect. 

“ Are you going out ?” asked he, after 
contemplating her for a moment. 

“ You see,” replied she, while finishing 


her toilette, “ I should not have made 
myself so beautiful if I were going to re- 
main here.” 

“ W ould it be improper to ask where 
■you are going?” 

“ I would tell you, but I know nothing 
about it. They have spoken to me about 
visiting several large ships.” 

“Has it ever occurred to you that it 
would be more natural and proper to walk 
out with me than with other persons?” 

“No; it would have been necessary to 
take you from the company of your 
mother, and I respect the family.” 

“ My mother has given me my liberty 
for the whole day. Can I be of any ser- 
vice to you?” 

“ Your information is too late. I have 
made engagements; I am sorry for you.” 

He felt that he was in danger of being 
carried away by his passion, and that he 
might fail of keeping the promises he had 
made. He kept silent, and contented him- 
self with looking at Cora. It was per- 
haps the last time he would see her. He 
could not, without an abandonment of all 
dignity, accept the role she had imposed 
upon him, nor tolerate the independent 
life which she insisted on leading, in con- 
tempt of the simplest proprieties of life. 

Without paying any attention to the 
impression she produced, Cora had thrown 
a mantilla over her shoulders, put on her 
Swedish gloves, taken her umbrella, and 
deliberately approaching the door, said, — 

“Am revoir, George.” 

A kind of bewilderment came over 
him, and he took a step towards hinder- 
ing her from going out ; but suddenly 
stopping and shrugging his shoulders, 
said, — 

“ Bah ! She is not worth the trouble.” 

He let her depart, and went quickly 
down-stairs without taking the trouble to 
notice in what direction she went. 

What was it to him ? It was decidedly 
well ended. They had come, without an- 
ger, without useless recriminations, with- 
out even any explanation, to a definitive 
rupture. 


42 


ARTICLE Ji7. 


For two years he had not felt so light, 
joyous, and free from every care. Fi- 
nally he was a free man. No more chains, 
no more slavery, no more tortures. It 
seemed to him that his heart had been re- 
lieved from an enormous pressure. 

He took his way merrily towards the 
landing. Suddenly he heard the clock of 
the Museum striking. 

“ If it is only eleven striking,*’ said he 
to himself, “ I have still time to jump into 
a carriage, take my mother at the hotel, 
and leave for Paris by the noon express.” 

It was eleven. He went hastily to a car- 
riage standing on the wharf. At the mo- 
ment of reaching it he remembered that 
he had forgotten to return to Cora the 
drafts she had confided to him the night 
before. It was imprudent to leave them 
at the hotel. At all events, that would 
take time and he would miss the train. 

“ I will leave this evening,” said he. 
“ There is no occasion for haste. I will re- 
join my mother at the hotel, and give her 
an airing. Poor, dear woman, how happy 
she will be to see me! She doubts my 
discretion. But she is wrong. If she 
only^ knew how I have already driven from 
my heart the very remembrance of that 
Cora ! I do not even hate her. I do not 
even despise her any longer. She is to 
me simply indifierent.” 

He had just entered Paris Street in or- 
der to go to Admiralty Hotel by a cross 
street. At the moment he was passing a 
restaurant much esteemed by certain in- 
habitants of Havre, he heard bursts of 
laughter, and raised his head. 

Cora was leaning on the balustrade of 
a window in the first story ; behind her, 
and resting in some measure on her shoul- 
der, was to be seen a young man from 
twenty to twenty-five years of age, of an 
elegant form, with a cigar. 

In the back part of the room there ap- 
peared to be four or five other young men. 

At this sight George felt that he Was 
turning pale and staggering. 

The perfect indifference which he made 
such a display of, a moment before, as re- 


garded Cora, suddenly vanished. His fine 
resolutions abandoned him. A terrible 
jealousy had just stung him to the heart. 


So there she was in a restaurant, in the 
company of young men with whom she 
was unacquainted the day before. And 
this woman he had loved and adored for 
two years. For her sake he alienated 
from himself all that American society 
which he for a long time had been so proud 
of. For her sake he had exposed his life 
in a terrible duel and killed a man. 

It was this woman to whom he had 
often thought of consecrating his whole 
life, who there, under his own eyes and 
in the eyes of every one, dared to pub 
licly expose herself in this shameless 
manner. 

Had she a right thus to conduct herself, 
and ought he to tolerate such conduct? 
During the passage which they had just 
made, with the captain and crew of the 
Zurich she passed for his wife. They 
called her Madame Du Hamel. He had 
landed with her. Their baggage was still 
in the same room, and a thousand ties 
united them. AYhat part then was he 
playing? What opinion would all thovse 
young men have of him ? What ! will he 
allow his mistress to live in this way ? 
did he abandon her to them ? They 
might suppose that she had an under- 
standing with him that she should enjoy 
this kind of liberty. Instead of saying 
that he was weak and ridiculous, one 
might accuse him of infamy. 

No ; he must protest against this odious 
conduct. In the presence of all these 
young men he must talk plainly to this 
woman, compel her to take his arm, and 
return with him to the hotel. Then, he 
would tell her that he was going to leave 
her, that he should go to Paris, and 
would give her her liberty ; but that so 


THE GIRL OF COLOR. 


43 


long as he should remain in Havre, and 
their definitive rupture should not have 
taken place, honor required him to 
claim his rights and cause them to be 
respected. 

In a moment his resolution was taken ; 
he would enter the restaurant and ask for 
Cora ; if she refused to come forward and 
speak to him, or if, having spoken with 
him, she refused to follow him, he would 
treat her in the presence of all as she de- 
served ; and, should he be obliged to use 
violence, she should leave with him, or 
else he would oblige her companions to 
leave and give place to him. 

At the moment he was crossing the 

threshold of the restaurant, he was ar- 

» ' 

rested by the thought, “ There are five or 
six young men in there, and they have 
several waiters in their service. If they 
should take it into their heads to put me 
out-of-doors, I should have made a pretty 
campaign, and should appear ridiculous 
in their eyes and Cora’s too. I ought to 
be able, in case of necessity, to command 
respect and to prevent them from resort- 
ing to personal violence. I must have 
some kind of defensive weapon, but the 
most inoffensive and least demonstrative ; 
for I do not count upon using it. Sup- 
pose I should go to the hotel and take the 
revolver on the table near Cora’s bed ! — 
No, that is too dangerous a weapon -, for 
the slightest pressure of the finger would 
start the trigger. I wish, if they oblige 
me to do so, only to intimidate those 
men ; I would not wound any one of 
them.” 

These reflections determined him to buy 
a pocket-pistol of the nearest gunsmith. 

But in a provincial town, when one is 
not known, it is not so easy to buy certain 
kinds of arms as it is in Paris. Pocket- 
pistols are, besides, put into the category 
of prohibited arms, and if the regulation 
were rigorously adhered to, armorers could 
only sell to persons authorized to buy. 

The man to whom George applied 
thought, the moment he entered his shop, 
that he was in an abnormal state of mind ; 


and fearing he might compromise himself, 
or be the cause of some accident, he got 
rid of his applicant by pretending that 
his pistols were not in a proper condition 
for sale at present. 

This unsuccessful step had, in the se- 
quel, such a sad influence upon the des- 
tiny of George du Hamel, and was inter- 
preted some time after in a manner so 
unfavorable to him, that we could not 
pass it over in silence. 

Not being able to buy a pistol of the 
armorer, George was going back to Paris 
Street with the intention of doing without 
it, and of entering boldly and without 
hesitation into the room where Cora was 
breakfasting in joyous company, when 
he thought he saw two carriages stop in 
front of the house towards which he was 
going. He quickened his step to come 
up with them, but before he arrived five 
persons came out of the restaurant 5 three 
of them got into the first carriage, and 
the other two, Cora and the young man 
whom George had seen half an hour 
before at her side, took possession of the 
other. 

It was too late. AVhilst he was losing 
his time at the armorer’s, the breakfast 
was ended and they were leaving the 
restaurant. 

The carriage which Cora had just taken 
passed rapidly near to George. He saw 
her gay and smiling, her complexion a 
little animated, sitting in the back part 
of the carriage, wfiilst her companion, 
emboldened doubtless by copious libations, 
took her hands and carried them to his 
lips. 

It was a flash, a sort of vision ; but 
from that moment George, as he after- 
wards confessed, lost his reason. 

If all he did from about noon till half- 
past five in the afternoon had not been 
afterwards carefully hunted up and legally 
verified ; if they had not said to him, 
“you did such a thing, you went into 
such a street, you conversed with such a 
person,” — he would never have known 
what had become of him. 


44 


ARTICLE 47. 


Jealousy, when it reaches a certain 
paroxysm, often resembles intoxication. 
Man, under the dominion of this passion, 
speaks and acts without being conscious 
of it, and the next day no longer remem- 
bers his words and his acts. 

According to the documents from which 
we have taken the dramatic recital which 
is to follow, the first impulse of George, 
when the carriage taking Cora away 
passed before him, was to run and en- 
deavor to overtake her. But he could 
not succeed. 

People in the street, and the shop- 
keepers, whom this unusual running in 
the most frequented part of Havre aston- 
ished, and who followed him with their 
eyes, saw him stop very near the Euro- 
pean Hotel. 

A two-horse livery coach was standing 
near the sidewalk. George ran to the 
coachman, and said, — 

“ Do you see that carriage passing yon- 
der near the theatre ? Two louis for you, 
if you overtake it.” 

“It cannot be done,” said the coach- 
man 5 “ that is the carriage of Monsieur 
Mazilier, Junior, who is the fastest trotter 
in Havre, and who seems to be doing his 
best at this time.” 

“ Try it, nevertheless.” 

The coachman sprang to his seat and 
whipped up his horses ; but Mazilier’s 
carriage had, during this time, made the 
tour of Comedy Square, crossed Commer- 
cial Wharf, and just entered Chaussé 
Street. It was lost sight of. 

Then the idea occurred to George to 
return to the restaurant where he had 
seen Cora. He thought the waiters might 
give him some information. The one 
whom he addressed, fearing that by his 
answers he might disoblige customers 
whom he had known for a long time, 
declined to answer this stranger, whose 
appearance, questions, and tone appeared 
suspicious. 

For more than two hours all trace of 
George du Hamel is lost. After leaving 
his carriage, he disappears in the direc- 


tion of the grounds on which are con- 
structed the Baths of Frascati. At five 
o’clock he is seen to enter the India 
Hotel. A waiter, who met him on the 
stairs, said to one of his fellows: “Just 
look at that gentleman of No. 33, how 
pale and agitated he looks. One would 
think that he meditates some evil design.” 

Such are the difierent facts and items 
they were enabled to collect at a later 
period concerning the movements of 
George du Hamel on that day of June, 
186-. 


Why did George return at five o’clock 
to India Hotel ? 

He could not hope or expect that Cora 
would very soon return to find him there. 
The day before, when she was hardly ac- 
quainted with Victor Mazilier, she did 
not leave him till nine o’clock in the 
evening-, and now, as they were more 
intimately acquainted, everything led to 
the belief that they would not separate so 
soon from each other. 

When he was asked afterwards for the 
motives of this sudden return, he could 
not explain. Yet these motives are easily 
guessed at. 

Broken down in body and mind, he re- 
turned mechanically to rest at his lodg- 
ings, to the place which she left in the 
morning, and to which she would return 
sooner or later. With haggard eyes he 
had occupied the same place for half an 
hour, when the door opened. Contrary 
to all expectation, Cora entered the room 
alone. 

“Why! are you here?” said she, on 
seeing George. 

This well-known voice aroused him 
from his state of dejection. He suddenly 
stood erect. His reason returned ; but, at 
the same time with reason, one of those fits 
of anger, the more terrible as they are cold 
and restrained, took possession of him. 


THE GIRL OF COLOR. 


45 


While he was looking at her in silence, 
she said, — 

“ You are astonished to see me return 
so soon, but I come back only to go out 
again.” 

“Ah!” 

“ Yes 5 I come to get my trunks.” 

“ Do you leave for Paris?” 

“ No 5 I remain in Havre, but leave 
this hotel. I wish to live at home. I 
have hired a small furnished house at 
Sainte-Adresse.” 

“ You will occupy it doubtless with the 
young man who gave you a ride to-day in 
his carriage?” 

“ No ; I am going to live alone. I 
don’t wish to be dependent upon any 
one ; and since we are upon this subject, 
pray listen to me.” 

“I will.” 

“ I don’t wish to leave you without 
explaining my conduct.” 

“Are you going to leave me?” 

“ At all events, we can no longer live 
together as we did in New Orleans. I 
resume my liberty and emancipate you.” 

He was going to reply, but she inter- 
rupted him 5 and taking a chair a few 
steps from George, — 

“ I have come to the conclusion, my 
dear friend,” said she, “ during the pas- 
sage from New Orleans, and especially 
since our arrival in France, that I am 
not the woman to suit you. You need a 
woman who is quiet, honest, and some- 
what provincial. I am fond of noise, 
commotion, festivals, and luxury. I have 
not lived^ up to the present; but I Avant 
to live, and mean to. At New Orleans, 
you know, I was deprived of all the 
pleasures I desired so much. My birth 
and my origin have shut all doors against 
me. I wish noAv that they may be flung 
Avide open. I aspire to taste the enjoy- 
ments which I have been deprived of 
until the present time. My pride and 
my vanity have cruelly suffered, and I 
Avish that finally they may be satisfied. 
I am a great-granddaughter of a slave. 
My ancestors have been sold, beaten, 


humiliated, and martyrized. I mean, 
thanks to the position I am going to 
occupy, to efface all this shame and dis- 
grace. La fille de coideur, bruised, 
wounded, and disdained, lifts her head at 
last, stands erect, and intends, in her 
turn, to command and reign, — ^yes, reign 
over all hearts, for yours is no longer 
sufficient. What sort of life do you ofier 
me? A simple and retired one, is it not? 
It would horrify me. I intend, before one 
year passes by, to have carriages and 
jewels to sell.” 

He interrupted her by saying, coolly, — 

“ You wish, in one word, to become a 
courtesan ?” 

“Be it so ! What do I care about the 
word^ provided I am rich, and reign, and 
have all men at my feet?” 

“ You were speaking just now of hu- 
miliation said he; “do you think they 
sufier no humiliation whose rival you 
aspire to be? You Avere despised and 
neglected in New Orleans because of your 
birth and origin, and that was an injus- 
tice, I grant.^ Here you will be despised 
because of your scandalous conduct, and 
that will be justice.” 

“ Who will despise me? Mothers of 
families, you may say. Well, they will 
remain at home in their drawing-rooms. 
As to their sons, they Avill come to my 
house, and shall pay dear, I assure you, 
for the disdain of their mothers.” 

“ Yes, yes,” said he, without loss of 
that terrible sang-froid which ought to 
have given Cora an occasion to reflect, 
“ I see well Avhat you intend to do ; you 
will engulf some fortunes and break some 
hearts.” 

“ As many fortunes and hearts as I 
possibly can,” replied she, with her habit- 
ual cynicism. 

“ And you are going to begin by ruin- 
ing one of the young men with whom you 
breakfasted this morning?” 

“ Exactly so ; the son of one of the 
richest ship-owners in Havre, young Vic- 
tor Mazilier. He is dead in love Avith 
me, and makes me brilliant promises.” 


4G 


ARTICLE Jf!. 


“ Take car^ tîiat he does not deceive 
you.” 

Oh, I will look out for that. I am 
not a simpleton. I have read a good deal 
in my hammock in New Orleans. Your 
French novelists have taught me a good 
deal about human life. I am posted in 
all the varieties of dissipation, both Paris- 
ian and provincial,” added she, misled by 
the seeming indifference and calmness of 
George, and believing that he was talking 
with her as a companion. “ The house I 
am going to occupy from this evening has 
been hired in the name of Mazilier.” 

“ That is a security,” said he, “ and it is 
he whom you intend to rejoin presently?” 

“ Yes; 'he is going to treat some of his 
friends, and I am to do the honors of the 
house.” 

lie advanced towards Cora: and this 
time, with clinched fists, contracted voice, 
and pale as death, he said, — 

“ Have you reflected on the part that I 
am playing in this matter ? 

“You?” 

“ Yes, 7. I who have just landed with 
you , — I whom everybody knew to be your 
lover in New Orleans , — I whose name 
you bore on board the Zurich , — I whose 
trunks are there still mixed up with 
yours.” 

“Never mind that. We are going to 
separate them.” 

He took no notice of this remark, and 
continued : 

“ What opinion do you think Victor 
Mazilier will have of me, as also all those 
young men you are going to rejoin? They 
will say that I tolerate you.r conduct, and 
that I profit by it, perhaps.” 

“ Ah, my friend,” exclaimed she, “pray 
let me alone. You are in no way respon- 
sible for my conduct. We are not bound 
to each other for eternity. I am going 
my way, and you may go yours. But if 
I listened to you, I well know that we 
should be on our way arm in arm this very 
evening for Paris ; am I right ? I have 
already told you that I am not willing for 
that. Stay here, my friend, stay ; I have 


no objection : I even desire it ; remain as 
my lover, but allow me to do as I please, 
and don’t torment me about what people 
may say or think. Go and join your 
mother; I am going to join those gentle- 
men. I will give orders below for my 
trunks. Au revoir^ and always yours 
when you wish it. By the way, the drafts 
which I left in your care?” 

“I will not return them,” said George. 

“Why not?” asked she, astonished. 

“Because you have no need of them at 
present ; you remain with me. You will 
not leave to rejoin those men.” 

“ Indeed ! who will prevent it?” 

“7,” said he, springing for the door. 

“ Ah ! do you believe that ?” cried she. 
“ Is it thus that you reward the frankness 
which I have just shown you, and the 
friendly way in which I have conversed 
with you ? You forget, ray dear sir, that 
I am never prevented from doing what I 
please. I fear no one, and you less than 
any other. Come, enough of this. Make 
way for me, I wish to leave.” 

“ You shall not leave.” 

“Ah! I shall noHeave? Well, I will 
leave, and will call no one to my assist- 
ance ; but you yourself shall open the 
door for me.” 

“ And what will you do to accomplish 
that?” 

Pale and trembling she approached him, 
and said, — 

“ I will tell you : George, I deceived you 
this morning, and I am going to deceive 
you again to-night.” 

“You lie!” exclaimed he, “you will 
deceive me no more.” 

And taking from the table, near the 
bed, the revolver he had formerly given 
her, he fired. 


THE GIRL OF COLOR. 


47 


XXIZ. 

All in the hotel were aroused in a mo- 
ment. They looked at each other, con- 
sulted together, and came to the conclu- 
sion that this detonation came from the 
second story, and from room No. 33. 

Immediately the proprietor of the hotel, 
followed by his waiters and several trav- 
elers, hastened up-stairs. The key was in 
the door and they entered without any 
difficulty. 

In ‘the middle of the room lay Cora, 
motionless. A stream of blood was flow- 
ing from the wound she had received. A 
few steps from her stood George, sullen 
and silent, still holding his pistol in his 
hand. He did not even turn his head to 
look at the people who were pressing into 
the chamber. 

The murderer appeared as lifeless as 
the victim. 

“ Quick, quick, a physician ! ” cried some. 
“ The police commissioner,” cried others. 
“ He must be arrested,” said one. “Take 
care, he is still armed,” said others. 

“ An assassin !” vociferated several per- 
sons on the stairs. 

These cries aroused George from his 
torpor. He looked around and under- 
stood what was going oh. 

He Avas the assassin. There was no 
possible doubt of it. He AA^as a lost man. 
He then cast a last look upon Cora ; not 
a look of hatred, but of love. 

His lips opened as if to utter a prayer, 
or to address a last adieu to his mother. 
Then he raised the revolver and applied 
the muzzle to his right temple. But one 
of those present, more intrepid than the 
others, had just slipped in behind him, 
and seizing the pistol, wrested it from his 
hands. 

Then George made a leap and sprang 
towards the window, for the purpose of 
precipitating himself into the street. 

He was disarmed, and no longer feared. 
Ten persons seized him at the same time, 
and brought him to the floor. 

“ Ah !” murmured he, in a plaintive 


voice, “ AAdiy prevent me from taking my 
own life?” 

They tied his hands, Avhile he made no 
resistance, keeping his eyes fixed on Cora. 

New cries, uttered by persons who had 
remained on the stairs, Avere heard. 

“ Here is the police commissioner !” 

He entered, followed by a physician and 
tAvo assistants, and his first care, after 
surveying the scene, was to clear the 
room. 

The physician kneeled before Cora, 
raised her head and examined her wound. 

George standing, with his hands tied, 
kept his eyes on the physician, and anx- 
iously waited for the decision he would 
make. 

On the stairs a confusion of voices Avas 
heard, and in the street the buzzing of the 
croAvd, which Avas gradually collecting 
under the windows of the hotel. 

After a short examination, the physician 
raised his head and said to the commis- 
sioner, “ The wound is not mortal, but this 
unfortunate woman is disfigured for life.” 

He drew a case of instruments from his 
pocket, ordered some water and linen, and 
proceeded to the first dressing of the 
wound. 

After a fcAV minutes the hemorrhage 
was arrested, fainting ceased, and Cora 
opened her eyes. 

Pain caused her to close them, but soon 
after she opened them again and looked 
around. 

Suddenly she perceived George and 
made a quick motion, which deranged the 
apparatus applied to her wound. The 
blood flowed again and Cora fainted. The 
physician, having renewed his treatment 
of the patient, advanced to the commis- 
sioner, and said to him, in a Ioav voice, — 

“ I should fear for the patient that, in 
coming out of this ncAV fainting fit, she 
might again see him who appears to have 
been the cause of this sad event. Could 
you not,” continued he, designating 
George, “ get that man to leave the 
chamber ?” 

“ Certainly,” said the commissioner ; “ ] 


48 


ARTICLE J^7. 


am going to take liim to the city prison. 
I am, however, obliged to make him 
undergo here a previous short interroga- 
tory.” 

Make haste,” replied the doctor. 

The commissioner advanced to George, 
shook him by the arm to arouse him from 
his state of dejection, and said, — 

“ What is your name ?” 

“ George du Hamel.” 

“ Where do you live ?” 

“ I have as yet no fixed residence, 
having arrived here but yesterday, on 
board the Zurich.” 

“You are a Frenchman, however ; 
have you any recommendation from any 
foreign consul ?” 

“ No ; I am a Frenchman.” 

“ Do you confess to having fired a pis- 
tol at this woman ?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Did you fire voluntarily, or did the 
pistol go off acccidentally ?” 

He reflected, and said, — 

“ I do not know exactly what has taken 
place, but I think I fired intentionally.” 

“ What motive had you for committing 
this crime ?” 

“ She made me too unhappy, and I 
loved her too much.” 

“Very well,” said the commissioner-, 
“ for the present this interrogatory is 
sufficient.” 

He called his two assistants and gave 
them orders in an under-tone. 

They advanced to George, took him 
each by an arm and led him away. 

He left without making the least resist- 
ance, after giving a parting look at Cora. 

Being loft alone with the physician, 
the commissioner asked him if he thought 
the patient would soon be in a condition 
to answer one or two important questions. 

“ It is impossible for the moment,” said 
the doctor; “but I will describe to you 
her wound or wounds in a few words. 

[Here follows an elaborate scientific 
description in technical language, which 
would not be interesting to readers gen- 
erally.] 


“ You conclude, from the description 
of the wound you have given, that the 
unfortunate woman cannot speak at 
present,” said the commissioner, inter- 
rupting the man of science, who seemed 
to take too much pleasure in his chirur- 
gical explanations. 

“ I do,” said the physician. 

“But,” replied the commissioner, 
“when she shall have come to herself, 
may I not put one or two questions, to 
which she can reply by signs ?” 

“ I see no objections,” said the doctor, 
“ to that course ; and, since your questions 
seem to be indispensable, I think it more 
prudent to put them npw than to-morrow. 
The fever cannot fail to show itself in a 
few hours ; and even some ulterior com- 
plication may supervene which might 
aggravate her condition and oblige us to 
resort to extreme caution.” 

A few minutes after this short conver- 
sation Cora opened her eyes again. The 
intelligence ‘that appeared in her eyes, in 
spite of the keen pains she must experi- 
ence, authorized the doctor to allow the 
commissioner of police to approach and 
speak to her. 

“ I have an important question to put 
to you,” said he, leaning towards the pa- 
tient. “ Do not try to answer me vocally, 
but only make an effort to write two 
lines on this note-book. Do you think 
you have the strength for that?” 

“ Yes,” said she, by a nod of the head. 

He put a pencil in her hand, slipped 
under her fingers a note-book, and said, 
“ Why did the man named George du 
Hamel fire a pistol at you ?” 

She seemed to reflect a moment, then a 
strange fire shone in her eyes, and she 
wrote these words, with a firm hand, — 

“ He had just robbed me, and wished 
to kill me to prevent my exposing him. 
You will find upon him the value of 
sixty thousand francs which belong to 
me.” 

This act of vengeance being accom- 
plished, she fell back exhausted upon her 
bed. 


THE GIRL OF COLOR. 


49 


XIXIIII. 

Reassured by the promises of her son 
in the morning, and especially by the 
calmness with which he had spoken with 
her, Madame Du Hamel had passed a 
pretty comfortable day. 

“He assured me,” said she to herself, 
“ that he would return this evening, and 
he will keep his word. Doubtless he is 
taking his leave of that woman 5 he is ex- 
plaining to her why he quits her. But I 
am no longer afraid of her. He would 
not have spoken to me so coldly of her, 
nor have judged her with so much sever- 
ity, if he loved her still. His heart is too 
loyal, too good, to be led astray any 
longer. He will belong to me entirely 
hereafter.” 

About four o’clock in the afternoon, 
when the heat, which was excessive on 
that day, had a little abated, she went out 
to take the air. 

At the door of the hotel she asked her- 
self in what direction she had better go : 
towards the centre of the city, or towards 
the landing. 

If, at this moment, she had decided in 
favor of Paris Street, she would, in all 
probability, have met George and calmed 
his irritation, and the fearful catastrophe 
related in the preceding chapter might 
have been prevented. But fate willed 
that she should go towards the landing. 
The desire had suddenly occurred to her 
of seeing again the place where her son 
had appeared to her the day before. 

Madame Du Hamel had just passed in 
front of the signal tower, when she thought 
she recognized in a person slowly walking, 
like a veritable Jlaneur, or rather like a 
sailor on his watch, the old sea captain 
whose attention had been so useful to her 
the day before. She walked quickly to- 
wards him, and as he, in his turn, had 
just recognized her : 

“Ah, captain,” said she, affectionately, 
“ I am happy to meet you ! You have 
taken me, I am sure, for an ungrateful 
4 


woman. To think, that I left you yester- 
day without even thanking you !” 

“Thanking me!^' said he, with his 
usual bluntness. “I hope you do not 
think that I counted on it. What I leave 
your son to return to me ! If you had I 
should never have pardoned you.” 

And changing his tone, he added : 

“Well, you are now in possession of 
your dear son. Happy mother !” 

“ Oh, yes, very happy,” said she. 

“You have found him grown up, more 
handsome and amiable than ever. That 
is the effect produced upon me when my 
sons return from their long voyages. 
Ah, what weak, silly creatures we are, 
eh?” 

She smiled at the expression and took 
the arm tendered her by the excellent 
man. 

They walked together a long time, talk- 
ing, she of him who returned the day be- 
fore, and he of those who were still 
plowing the seas. 

“ Captain,” said Madame Du Hamel, 
about five o’clock, “suppose we should 
continue our conversation at my hotel ? 
It is but a step or two off, and my son 
will soon join me. Perhaps he is waiting 
for me already. I should be very happy 
to introduce him to you, and give him an 
opportunity to thank you for the various 
civilities shown me yesterday.” 

“ So be it,” replied the captain. “ I 
understand it. You have just been prais- 
ing your son, and you wish to prove to 
me that you were still beneath the mark 
that he would bear.” 

“ Well, yes, captain,” said she, smiling, 
“ I confess my weakness in that direc- 
tion.” 

A quarter of an hour after, Madame 
Du Hamel was sitting in front of the cap- 
tain, in the small room she occupied in 
the Admiralty Hotel. 

Soon, however, the conversation, so 
lively a moment before, began to lag ; a 
sort of vague inquietude was getting pos- 
session of the mother of George. She 
asked herself if that woman had not 


50 


ARTICLE 47, 


nianaged to retain him, and if he had not 
forgotten his promises and changed his 
intentions. 

As it was warm in the room, she 
opened the window, and looking out, she 
exclaimed, — 

“ Look here, captain, why are all those 
people there on the wharf? Do you know 
the reason of it?” 

He came to the window and said, — 

“No ; I don’t know what is going on 
there. These people seem much agitated, 
and talk with a good deal of animation. 
Has some accident happened at sea ? If 
you will allow me, madame, I will go and 
inquire into the matter.” 

“ As you please, captain ; I will wait.” 

He went out and returned in five 
minutes. 

“ It appears,” said he, on rejoining 
Madame Du Hamel, who had not left the 
window, “ that a murder was committed 
but a moment ago, a few steps from here, 
in the India Hotel.” 

“Ah, mon Dieu! and upon whom?” 

“ Upon a young woman who had been 
staying in the hotel since yesterday, but 
whose name no one could give me.” 

“ And we are quietly staying here while 
a murder is committed by our side. Who 
is the murderer?” 

“ A young man from twenty-five to 
thirty years of age. He has been arrested.” 

Suddenly Madame Du Hamel, a little 
indifierent until this time, at these details, 
turned pale and leaned against the balus- 
trade of the window to avoid falling. 

. An unreasonable idea had just crossed 
her mind, which she repelled, and soon 
recovered, saying to the captain, with a 
smile, — 

“ Ah, you were very right just now 5 
how ridiculous mothers are sometimes !” 

“ Fathers are not a whit less so,” said 
the captain. 

Meanwhile the crowd kept increasing 
on the wharf. It was extending now to 
the front of Admiralty Hotel, and voices 
reached the window occupied by Madame 
Du Hamel and the captain. 


They were able to distinguish remarks 
like these ; 

“ They are going to take him off to 
prison.” “ The case is a clear one.” “Ah, 
here is the carriage the policeman went 
for.” “ Take care ; get out of the way ; 
you will be crushed.” 

The carriage had j ust arrived. The crowd 
huddled together and made room for it. 
The coachman succeeded in placing his 
horses in front of India Hotel. 

The police agent in the carriage hastily 
got out, and ordered the hotel door to be 
opened, which it had been thought pru- 
dent to close. Several apparitors (this 
is the name they give in Havre to the city 
constables) who had appeared, on account 
of the tumult, kept back the curious and 
made an empty space between the hotel 
and the carriage. 

“ He is coming down,” they said in the 
crowd. 

“ There he is ! there he is 1” 

“Attention !” 

A little ten -year -old boy, well ac- 
quainted, no doubt, with Parisian usages, 
had set up an old hogshead on the side- 
walk, and was screaming himself hoarse 
with the announcement : “ Place to let, 
place to let, only five centimes !” Children 
got on to the back of taller persons, gamins 
had perched on the roofs of houses, and on 
the wooden cabins destined for the em- 
ployees of the boatmen of Trouville and 
Honfleur. 

Madame Du Hamel could not detach 
herself from her window ; an invincible 
power, perhaps a secret presentiment, fas- 
tened her to her place. 

Near her the captain looked on as an 
amateur. 

“A Jieap of imbeciles,” murmured he, 
from time to time ; they give themselves 
a deal of trouble to see — what ? Why, a 
man who looks like any other man.” 

“An unfortunate man, perhaps, led 
astray through poverty or passion,” said 
Madame Du Hamel. 

“ Places to let, for five centimes !” con- 
tinued to cry out the little boy. 


TEE GIRL OF COLOR. 


51 


The noise ceased as if by enchantment. 
The door of the hotel had just been 
opened. 

George appeared. 

Ilis hands were tied behind his back, 
and two policemen were holding his arms 
as an additional precaution. 

A heart-rending cry was heard from 
the window of Admiralty Hotel. 

Madame Du Hamel had just recognized 
her son. 


The day these events occurred, Mon- 
sieur De T , then attorney-general at 

Havre, was at a family dinner, when a 
servant informed him that a lady wished 
to see him. 

“ And you told her that I was at din- 
ner?” said he. 

“ Yes, your honor 5 but the lady insists 
on seeing his honor on a matter of the 
highest importance. She is accompanied 
by a sea-captain well known to your 
honor.” 

“ Very well ; show them into my office.” 

Some minutes after. Monsieur De T 

joined Madame Du Hamel and her com- 
panion. 

“ Permit me, Mr. Attorney-General,” 
said the captain, “ to introduce to you an 
unhappy mother, and to invoke in her 
behalf all your kindness. She is too 
much excited at present to explain to you 
the object of her visit. I will, with your 
permission, do it for her.” 

“ Proceed, sir.” 

“Madame is a widow,” resumed the 
captain, “ and resides in Paris. She came 
to Havre to wait for her son, who had 
been living for several years in New Or- 
leans, and who arrived yesterday. This 
son had been out since the morning, and 
we were waiting for him at Admiralty 
Hotel, Avhere madame is staying, when 
we saw a large crowd collecting on the 
wharf. They spoke of a young man who 


had fired a pistol at a woman. Suddenly, 
this young man, taken off by the police, 
passed before us, and this lady recognized 
him as her son.” 

“ The lady’s name, then, is Madame Du 
Hamel? The police commissioner has 
already sent me a note on this affair. It 
is of a serious character, and I was going 
to attend to it. How, madame ? is it your 
son who ” 

After a violent effort, she succeeded in 
subduing her emotion, and said, — 

“ He is innocent, sir ! he is innocent I 
Oh, if you knew him, if you knew how 
good he is, how honest and brave ! There 
is some mistake ; they have arrested him 
without a hearing. But you will set him 
at liberty ; all will be explained.” 

She stopped, and sobs choked her voice. 

When she was more calm, the attorney- 
general spoke as follows, — 

“ Madame, you have come to me Avith 
the hope that I may be able to assist you 
officially. I am deeply grieved at your 
affliction, and am quite disposed to be of 
service to you. But in the interest of 
yourself and son, and a little also in that 
of society, which I represent, it seems to 
me important not to begin, in this matter, 
by indulging in any illusions. You say 
to me, ‘ My son is not guilty but I reply, 
‘He certainly is.’ According to a note 
which I have before me, there is no pos- 
sible doubt in the case. A pistol has 
been fired at a woman, a foreigner, who 
has been residing only since yesterday at 
the India Hotel. The man guilty of this 
act is called George du Hamel, — that is 
indubitable. And now, is the question 
about a crime, or an accident? When 
questioned by the police commissioner, 
your son replies, ‘Yes, I believe I fired,’ 
And to the question as to the motive for 
doing so, he says, ‘ She made me too un- 
happy ! I loved her too well !’ ” 

“ He is mistaken, sir ! he is mistaken !” 
said the unfortunate Avoman. “ He may 
have had a quarrel Avith that Avoman. A 
pistol may have been Avithin reach ; he 
may have seized it ; it may have gone off ; 


52 


ARTICLE Jft, 


and in his despair and stupor he may 
have answered the first thought that came 
to mind, or what may have been wished 
of him.” 

The attorney-general did not think it 
his duty to show up the improbability of 
this version of the case. In his career, 
already a long one, criminal affairs of all 
sorts had passed before him, and he thus 
accounted for this one : A young man of 
good family, in a moment of madness or 
bewilderment, after a scene of jealousy, 
had fired on his mistress. Ordinarily, the 
ball breaks a glass, or is buried in the 
wall. The two lovers pay the damages, 
and the law has no occasion to interfere. 
In this case, the ball had maladroitly hit 
its object. There was a wound, a severe 
wound, and the courts must deal with it. 
But the guilty man might be worthy of in- 
dulgence, and that was what Monsieur De 
T wished to know as soon as possible. 

“You were not probably cognizant, 
madame,” said he to Madame Du Hamel, 
“of the intimacy of your son with that 
woman, and therefore cannot give me any 
information in that direction?” 

“ I beg pardon, sir,” replied she, 
“George has always confided to me his 
most secret thoughts. Yesterday, and 
even this morning, he told me all the 
woman you speak of has made him suffer. 
He had known her in America, and had 
by her been influenced to take her to 
France. Well, is it strange? He is so 
young 5 and he had not me with him, as 
a guide, and his father had just died. 
Alone, left to himself, in some measure 
abandoned, he allowed this woman to 
exert an influence over him which she 
cruelly abused. But he wished to get rid 
of her. He was to set out with me this 
very evening for Paris, after making his 
farewell call upon her. That was his 
solemn promise to me.” 

“ That is just what I thought,” said 
the attorney-general to himself; “ a quar- 
rel, a scene, a fit of passion, — there cannot 
have been any premeditation. An at- 
tempt will be made to cure the woman as 


speedily as possible, and to appease her 
with money. The affair may be settled, 
perhaps, without much trouble.” 

He was seeking for words which, 
without compromising his responsibility, 
might comfort Madame Du Hamel a little, 
when another note was handed him from 
the police commissioner. 

This magistrate informed him of the 
accusation of robbery brought by Cora 
against George du Hamel, an accusation 
substantiated by the discovery of a pocket- 
book in possession of the prisoner, con- 
taining the value of sixty thousand francs, 
in the name of Mademoiselle Cora. He 
sent also, in this note, the deposition of 
the armorer, of whom George had tried, 
without success, to buy a pair of pistols. 
Finally, the commissioner of police in- 
formed the attorney-general, that hardly 
was he inside the prison, when he at- 
tempted to commit suicide, and they were 
obliged to keep him under guard. 

Thus in a moment this affair had 
changed in aspect. The question was no 
longer about wounds inflicted without in- 
tention of producing death, and in a mo- 
ment of excitement caused by jealousy. 
But the question now was about robbery, 
followed by an attempt at assassination, 
and premeditation seemed to appear from 
the first testimony they had been able to 
obtain. The attorney-general looked at 
Madame Du Hamel, and read in her face 
the terrible emotion she experienced. 

He had not the courage to tell her the 
truth. What would be the use of inform- 
ing her at this time ? She would know 
all about it quite soon enough. But as 
this false position could not be prolonged, 
“ Madame,” said he, rising, “ please ex- 
cuse me, I am obliged to leave ” 

“ Yes, sir ; yes, I understand ; but my 
son ” 

“ I can do nothing for him at present, 
madame ; this affair must be investi- 
gated.” 

“ Ah, mon Dim 1 but I shall see him ? 
You will allow me to go and see him in 
his prison ?” 


THE GIRL OF COLOR. 


53 


“ That is impossible this evening, 
madame.” 

“What do you say? Oh, sir, — ^but 
pray think — what will become of him, 
the poor child ? He will think himself 
abandoned and lostl Ah, if he should 
kill himself I” exclaimed she, with a heart- 
rending accent. 

Her maternal instinct made her divine 
the danger George was in. 

“Write to him, madame,” said the 
attorney, himself frightened at the idea 
of a suicide, which the papers would not 
fail to make a reproach to the authorities. 
“ Tell him that you beg of him to live. 
Here, madame, are all the conveniences 
you need for writing.” 

She sat down at Monsieur de T -s 

desk and wrote four pages, stopping 
only to wipe away the tears that ob- 
scured her vision. 

This letter, which George’s attorney 
read afterwards in court, was admirable. 
It ended in these words : 

“ If you are not guilty, live to save your 
outraged honor. If you are guilty, oh, 
live on, live for your mother, who pardons 
you, who cannot do without you, and 
whom your death would kill I” 


Two months after the events we have 
just related, George du Hamel was 
brought before the court of assizes of the 
Lower Seine, sitting at Rouen. 

All the steps taken by Madame Du 
Hamel in the interest of her son had been 
useless. This affair had acquired too 
great a notoriety to allow any impedi- 
ment to be thrown in the way of justice, 
or for the court, had it wished to do so, 
to use any indulgence. 

Victor Mazilier, vAiose most cherished 
hopes had been ruined by an accident, 
saw in this crime a means of getting him- 
self talked about, and of posing as a Love- 


lace. By his continual whimperings 
and lamentations, one would have thought 
that the ball which had struck Cora had 
hit him. Ilis friends, in memory of the 
breakfast in Paris Street, joined the 
chorus with him ; and as these gentle- 
men, by their relations and fortune, ex- 
erted a certain influence upon public 
opinion, Havre, and soon Rouen and 
Paris, had become more than usually ex- 
cited. 

The accusation of robbery brought 
against George du Hamel had been so 
precise, Cora had renewed it afterwards 
with so much assurance, that persons dis- 
posed at first to interest themselves in the 
defendant, to consider him as the victim 
of an inordinate passion, and to lend to 
him all the charms of a hero of romance, 
had suddenly found their enthusiasm 
toning down. George was no longer to 
them anything but a common malefactor ; 
and if his trial excited a lively curiosity, 
it was because the accused belonged to a 
certain class of society, and that people 
could not help sympathizing with that 
Cora, formerly so beautiful it was said, 
but now so disfigured for life. 

At half-past nine, on the morning of 
the 22d of August, 186-, the doors of the 
court were thrown open to the public. 

• Madame Du Hamel and Cora, with 
some persons between them, were seated 
on the witness-bench. 

The one had made a last appeal to her 
courage to assist her son to the last hour ; 
the other, forgetting her coquetry, which 
ought to have prevented her from showing 
herself in public in the condition in which 
she was, had wished to sustain with her 
own voice her accusation, and pursue her 
vengeance to the bitter end. 

After the impaneling of the jury, and 
when the defendant had been brought 
into court, the judge, or president, ordered 
the reading of the indictment. After this 
the attorney-general stated the points in 
the case as follows : 

“ According to the indictment, George 
du Hamel stands accused of having, on 


54 


ARTICLE 47. 


the 12th of June, 186 — , at Havre, 
committed, with premeditation, an at- 
tempt at assassination on the person of 
one Cora, — an attempt manifested by a 
beginning of execution, Avhich failed of 
its effect only through circumstances in- 
dependent of the will of its author : 

“ Of having, moreover, on the same 
day, in the same place, committed, to the 
prejudice of said Cora, a robbery by the 
aid of violence, having left traces of 
wounds or contusions, crimes anticipated 
in Articles 2, 296, 297, etc., etc., of the 
Penal Code.” 

Being interrogated by the president, 
after the usual formalities, George du 
Hamel confessed that he had, in a mo- 
ment of passion, which he deplored from 
the bottom of his heart, fired a pistol at 
his mistress -, but he protested against 
the accusation of robbery which she had 
caused to hang over him. He ended by 
saying that he left to his attorney the 
care of demonstrating the falsity of this 
accusation. 

When Cora advanced to testify, a lively 
feeling of curiosity was manifested in the 
audience. A large part of her face was 
covered by a bandage. She lifted it a 
little, in order to be able to answer the 
questions of the president of the court. 

When he asked her if she persisted in 
the deposition she had made in writing 
during the preparation of the case, she 
said, very decidedly, that she did. 

Then, suddenly turning to George du 
Hamel and extending her arm : 

‘‘That man,” cried she, “is not only 
an assassin, but a robber!” 

Her gesture was eloquent and her voice 
convincing. Her eyes had a strange ex- 
pression. A shudder ran through the 
audience, whilst George whispered in the 
ear of his lawyer, “ She is avenging her- 
self!” 

Happily, the interrogatory of Madame 
Du Hamel soon destroyed the bad effect 
produced upon the jury by the declara- 
tions of Cora. 

This cultured woman of the world, who 


had never perhaps raised her voice in 
public, — this mother so timid and weak, 
— advanced bravely in front of the court, 
thanked the judges for the permission 
given her not to be present at the trial, 
but declared that she had, on the con- 
trary, wished to take a part in it. Then, 
turning to the jury, she energetically de- 
fended her son ; and the president, not- 
withstanding she was out of order, did 
not think fit to deny her the liberty she 
had taken. She used touching expres- 
sions to describe the love that her son 
had for her, the care and solicitude with 
which she had surrounded him in his 
youth. She read the last letter which he 
wrote her from New Orleans, announcing 
his return. She tried to demonstrate 
that this accusation of robbery was in- 
admissible, for she bad a respectable for- 
tune, and her son could dispose of it as 
he wished. And had he not inherited 
from his father more than three hundred 
thousand francs? and had he not sent 
this fortune to France, writing to his 
mother that he relinquished all his rights 
to her? For what purpose could he have 
wished to appropriate to himself sixty 
thousand francs belonging to the woman 
he loved, and to whom he Avould have 
sacrificed everything if she had wished 
it? 

Finally, turning to Cora, and as the 
latter had turned to George, she said, 
“ Madame, you appear here as in a civil 
suit fbr damages. You claim from my 
son a sum of money for the wrong Avhich 
has been inflicted on you physically. We 
understand it. My son has committed a 
great fault, and wishes to repair it as far 
forth as he can. We offer you our entire 
fortune, his and- mine; but, pray, re- 
nounce your terrible accusation ; do not 
change the character of this trial ; do not 
any longer prejudice the court against 
us ; do not dishonor us. It is a mother 
who speaks to you. If you have no pity 
on my son, have pity on me !” 

When she had finished speaking, one 
of the jury rose, and requested the pre- 


THE GIRL OF COLOR, 


55 


siding officer to interrogate Cora again, 
and to ask her if she persisted in her 
declarations. 

The president complied with the re- 
quest, and Cora replied that she persisted 
in her accusation. 

Victor Mazilier, in his deposition, did 
not obtain all the success he had hoped 
for. As he wished to launch out into 
fine phrases and expatiate upon the 
charms of Cora, the president interrupted 
him dryly, and ordered him to return to 
his seat. 

The attorney-general sustained the ac- 
cusation, and spoke as attorney-generals 
unfortunately too often speak. Instead 
of being cool and calm, he was eloquent, 
impassioned, and ardent in his attack. 
He brought up all the antecedents of 
George du Hamel; he described him as 
irascible and violent ; he characterized as 
criminal his youthful outbreaks at the 
time he was at school in Paris ; he con- 
demned the liberal tendencies of the stu- 
dent and the young man. He dwelt at 
length upon his first political duel at 
twenty-one Î upon his arrest in conse- 
quence of blows administered to a police- 
man ; upon his second duel, which ter- 
minated in the death of John de B . 

This last affair was represented by the 
attorney in such a way as to make George 
appear an implacable and terrible duelist, 
and his adversary, John de B , an in- 

nocent martyr in a holy cause, — a timid 
man, who fights a duel because he has 
been challenged. 

“ You see him, gentlemen,” said the 
attorney, on finishing this first part of 
his plea, “when hardly out of college, in 
open conflict with society. He braves 
authority, strikes the officers charged 
with the duty of causing it to be re- 
spected. He takes a sword, and severely 
wounds one of his fell.ow-students, — a 
student like himself, who has no other 
fault than not sharing his revolutionary 
ideas. Soon his residence in Paris be- 
comes too dangerous for him; his un- 
happy mother fears that he may commit 


new faults or crimes, and sends him to 
the United States. Do you believe, gen- 
tlemen of the jury, that he is going to 
change his conduct there? Not at all. 
In requital for the hospitalities offered 
him by the Creoles of New Orleans, he 
rebels against their ideas, prejudices, and 
usages. They protest; then he insults 
and strikes. He is challenged to fight a 
duel ; he gladly accepts the challenge. 
Oh, yes ! when the question is about 
deadly weapons, whether a sword or a 
revolver, he is always ready. Why, gen- 
tlemen, the minister of justice wrote to 
New Orleans to get some details about 
this duel. Do you know what the reply 

was ? Listen : John de B had, when 

he expired, his body covered with wounds, 
in his arms, breast, and neck, and his ad- 
versary still continued to fight. Such is 
the man you have before you this day for 
judgment.” 


The second part of the attorney-gen- 
eral’s address to the jury begins like an 
eclogue. He relates the arrival of Cora 
in France. “ She is young, beautiful, and 
adorably charming. All those who have 
become acquainted with her, Victor Ma- 
zilier and his friends, delight in praising 
the sweetness of her character and the 
amenity of her manners. Poor woman ! 
she had heard speak in her native coun- 
try, New Orleans, of European civiliza- 
tion, of French courtesy. She has confi- 
dence in our hospitality and honor. What 
a sweet life she is going to lead among us ! 
She thought of going to Paris, but Nor- 
mandy appears to her so beautiful, this 
splendid department of the Lower Seine, 
where you were born, gentlemen of the 
jury, has so captivated her that she de- 
cides to live in Havre. She is making 
arrangements for housekeeping, and is 


56 


ARTICLE J^7. 


cheerful and happy. The proprietor of 
India Hotel, near whom she passes to go 
to her room, has just told you so, gentle- 
men. Everything connected with her 
savored of happiness. Hardly a half- 
hour had elapsed, and a terrible detona- 
tion is heard. They run to her room, 
and find the unfortunate woman bathed 
in her blood. This beautiful creature is 
forever disfigured. What had taken place 
during this half-hour?” 

The attorney-general tries to establish 
the accusation of robbery on solid and 
irrefutable bases. But here his address 
is less beautiful and his logic less close. 
He is obliged to switch off into the domain 
of fancy. 

If you believe him, Cora is an embar- 
rassment to George du Hamel. She is a 
clog upon his life. This unfortunate 
woman loves him ardently, to such a 
degree that one day, in America, she 
bought a revolver, saying, “ I will kill 
you if you ever deceive me.” It is the 
defendant himself who, of his own accord, 
used these words in presence of the judge 
presiding in preparing this case. 

“ How is he to get rid of this woman? 
He will rob her. And when she shall 
be alone, destitute of resources, she, so 
faithful till then, will commit some fault 
towards him ; she will listen, perhaps, to 
the discourse of those young men to whom 
he abandoned her, so to speak, on the day 
of her arrival, and then he will come and 
say to her, ‘ You have deceived me, you 
are unworthy of me, — begone!’ Who 
prevents him from robbing her? They 
are alone. She is weak, and he is strong. 
He seizes her, takes from her the pocket- 
book containing her money, and prepares 
to leave. That very night he will be en 
route for Paris. But she protests, cries 
out, and calls for help. He foresees him- 
self arrested and condemned as a robber. 
Then he seizes a pistol and fires.” 

As to the question of premeditation, the 
attorney-general has no need of drawing 
upon his imagination. The facts exist, 
and he uses them. 


“Would a jealous man,” said he, 
“ think of going to buy a pistol in view 
of a quarrel which he will perhaps have 
with his mistress ? Nonsense ! He wants 
the pistol for the bad use he intends to 
make of it. It is evident, it is certain.” 

The attorney-general concluded by ask- 
ing from the jury a terrible verdict ; and 
the more terrible, as the victim is a wo- 
man and a foreigner. 

“What respect,” said he, “will Amer- 
icans have for us, if we do not see to it 
that ample justice is done to them ?” 

After a short recess of the court, the 
counsel for the defendant took the floor. 

This was Monseigneur X , chief of 

the advocates of the Imperial Court of 
Rouen. In a simple and elevated style, 
he refutes the arguments of the plaintiff, 
and presents each fact, one after another, 
in a new light. 

As to the antecedents of the accused, 
he declares that he knows of none better. 
“He is the most devoted friend and affec- 
tionate son that ever lived. He is re- 
proached with having taken a part for- 
merly in outbreaks in the Latin quarter. 
Is it a crime to be ardent and enthusiastic 
in support of great ideas? What becomes 
of those students, at a later period, whom 
you are pleased to consider so terrible? 
They become merchants, farmers, and ar- 
tists, like yourselves, gentlemen of the 
jury. Sometimes they happen to wear 
the gown and the ermine, like you, gen- 
tlemen of the court. But you reproach 
him with his two duels. The first goes 
for nothing. Indeed, gentlemen, it was a 
pleasantry, a mere joke ; and I am aston- 
ished that the government has even made 
mention of it. As to the second, I will 
relate it to you, but not after your man- 
ner. It shall be the truth, for I shall 
rest upon authentic documents, journals 
of the. country, and letters written to me 
from New Orleans. Here they are. I 
will read them to you, and you shall 
judge.” After this reading. Monseigneur 
X said, — 

“ There you have John de B , and 


THE GIRL OF COLOR. 


57 


there you have George du Ilamel. You 
see how both conducted themselves, and 
how they both fought.” 

Going directly to the bottom of the 

matter, Monseigneur X , in an excited 

voice, related the facts as they took place 
and in all their simplicity. The reader is 
acquainted with them, and knows by what 
feeling George was influenced. He, the 
reader, does not acquit him perhaps en- 
tirely, but he has for him a sincere indul- 
gence. lie sees for what object he wished 
during the day to procure a pair of pis- 
tols, and the premeditation is entirely 
destroyed. He knows how the pocket- 
book containing Cora’s money was found 
in George’s hands, and he has never had 
the thought of suspecting him of robbery. 

In his peroration. Monseigneur X 

addresses himself to the jury and entreats 
them to acquit his client. lie makes a 
last appeal to their conscience, and points 
them to that mother, that splendid woman, 
near them, in tears and extending her arms 
asking them to restore to her her son, her 
dearly beloved son. 

If, after this eloquent pleading, the jury 
had entered their room for deliberation, 
we are persuaded they would have returned 
a verdict of not guilty on every question. 
But the president made the usual review 
of the arguments on both sides, and his 
summing up lasted two hours. When he 
ceased speaking, the jurors, cooled down 
by this new, calm, and in some measure 
elegant discourse, had forgotten the ex- 
citing eloquence of the defendant’s coun- 
sel, and their hearts no longer beat so 
much in his favor. 

The following is the result of their de- 
liberations : 

On the first question : 

“ Is the accused guilty of having made 
an attempt at assassination at Havre, and 
with premeditation,” etc. 

The answer of the jury was : 

“ Yes^ the accused is guilty.” 

On the second question : 


“ Is he guilty of having committed, on 
the same day, and in the same place, and 
to the prejudice of said Cora, a robbery 
by the aid of violence ?” 

“ Wo, the accused is not guilty.” 

“ In the opinion of the majority there 
are extenuating circumstances in favor of 
the accused.” 

The court, at the request of the attorney-, 
general, who asks for damages and inter- 
ests, retires to deliberate, and soon returns 
with the following result : 

“ In view of the verdict of the jury, 
from which it results that George du 
Hamel is guilty on the first question : 

‘‘And considering that there are in 
favor of the accused certain extenuatino; 
circumstances 5 and in view of Articles 2, 
296, 297, the court condemns George du 
Hamel to Jive years of hard labor.'' 

When the president pronounced the 
words hard labor [travaux forcés) ^ a voice 
was heard : “ Oh, my God !” At this mo- 
ment a woman sitting on the witness- 
bench fainted entirely away. It was 
Madame Du Hamel. George attempted 
to rush to her assistance, but was pre- 
vented by the gendarmes. Then all the 
self-command he had shown up to that 
moment abandoned him, and he wept 
like a child. 

Whilst they were taking Madame Du 
Hamel out of court, the president con- 
tinued, as follows : 

“ Whereas it has appeared from the de- 
bates that George du Hamel has in- 
flicted upon the woman Cora an injury, 
for which reparation is due, the court 
condemns him to pay to said Cora the 
sum of thirty thousand francs, and fixes 
at three years the duration of bodily re- 
straint.” 

About the month of October of the 
same year Madame Du Ilamel established 
herself at Toulon, in order to be nearer 
her son, who had just been transferred to 
prison. 


FAUT IL -THE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG GIRL. 


^ I- 

Januart 8 , 18 — . 

The waiter-girl of the nunnery has 
just entered the study-room with that 
discreet haste and prescribed manner 
which constitute a part of her person as 
much as her black cap, scantily trimmed 
with lace. She whispered a few words in 
the ear of Mother Saint Joseph, who was 
superintending the studies; and Mother 
Saint Joseph, in her turn, assumed her 
whining tone in order to announce that I 
was wanted in the parlor, and that our 
reverend mother authorized me to go 
there. 

A visit outside of regular hours ! What 
can that mean ? Quickly I put on my pele- 
rine and gloves, and proceed to the parlor. 
I found there my father, who was im- 
patiently waiting for me. He embraced 
me more cordially than usual, and said, — 

“ My dear child, you cannot understand 
what pleasure I feel in pressing you to 
my bosom. I thought, for a long while, 
that I should not see you again. While 
you were accusing me, perhaps, of for- 
getting you, I thought a great deal of 
you. I did not wish to cause you unnec- 
essary anxiety by informing you that I 
was in danger, but I promised myself to 
live for you if I should return to life. 
Now I keep my word. I take you away, 
and you quit the convent. I have in- 
formed the lady superior of this resolu- 
tion, but she did not approve of it. She 
trembles for your future. She went so 
far as to accuse me of selfishness. Do not 
fear. No, I am not selfish. I may be 
weak, at the most. But I can never be 
58 


persuaded that a father is not capable of 
watching over his own daughter.” 

While speaking thus his voice changed, 
and he embraced me again, while I threw 
my arms around him. 

Poor father ! he has been in danger, 
and I knew nothing about it. He loves 
me, I know it, and I also love him with 
all my heart ; but does he know it ? It is 
here that I have seen him the most fre- 
quently, in this large, naked, and cold 
hall, encumbered on visiting-days by stiff 
groups, among whom are exchanged, fur- 
tively, sugar-plums and stolen kisses. 

“ Keep quiet, dear child,” continued 
my father, “we shall live happily to- 
gether. You shall take the place of your 
dear mother. You shall be my good 
angel, and give to my life a serious pur- 
pose.” 

I should have been glad to reply to my 
father, but madame the superior entered 
at this moment. I waited in silence, with 
downcast eyes, for the little speech im- 
minent under these circumstances, and 
of which the following is a translation ; 
for I have learnt here to understand, 
though not to speak, the language, which 
is composed chiefly of reticences and 
understoods. 

“ My dear child,” said she, “ I return 
you to your father.” Here was a long 
pause, a sigh, and certain airs, which 
said clearly, “ It is absolutely as if I were 
handing you over to the Minotaur.” 
She added, “ I fear for you the dangers of 
this world, which you are not acquainted 
with ; I should have wished to keep 
you still, but leave us to follow your 
father, and I have nothing to say.” 


TEE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG GIRL. 


59 


Which meant, “ You are an ungrateful 
girl ; we have sought to attach you to us 
by all the fibres of the heart, and behold 
you suddenly break away from all these 
ties.” 

And yet, I shall not leave without sor- 
row. I regret my companions and sev- 
eral nuns who have been kind to me, al- 
though I have never been able to become 
attached to those holy women. And do 
you know why ? It is because it was neces- 
sary to call each of them my mother. 
Oh, that was wrong! To force a poor 
child to give that sacred name to a stran- 
ger, — the only name by which I can call 
the saint whom I invoke at all hours. 
Yes, I invoke my mother as a saint. I 
pray to her. Yes, I worship her memory. 

I was very young when I lost her, but 
that death has not separated us. I felt 
that then a portion of myself, and the 
best part, reascended to heaven. It is 
thence that come my good inspirations. 
That holy influence sustains me and en- 
velops me with a celestial atmosphere. 
My mother! I have never invoked her 
in vain ; and if ever a danger threat- 
ened me she would come to me, she 
would protect and save me. But pray 
what are those dangers of the world, 
those unknown dangers which they speak 
to us so much about? One would think 
that behind the door of this sainted house 
legions of demons are lying in ambush. 
Why not point out to us those dangers 
towards which we are traveling? They 
are close by us, they are inevitable, and 
yet those learned women, who can inform 
us how J erubbabel brought back the cap- 
tives, builded the altar, and laid the 
foundation of the second temple, can tell 
us nothing of the means of escaping the 
terrible dangers that menace us. 

Now I am going to face and brave this 
ocean and its storms. I am now on the 
open sea ; for yesterday I left the port, 
that is to say, the convent. My large shoes, 
my black plush bonnet, lined with rose 
plush, must have cut a laughable figure 
in my father’s elegant calash. I am now 


installed at our house. I might say at my 
house, for my father wishes me to be the 
mistress of the establishment. 

Never shall I be able to describe the 
effect of this contrast. Only yesterday, 
and I retired to bed in a long plastered 
dormitory, lighted by the lugubrious gleam 
of an agonizing lamp, suspended from the 
ceiling. To-day, here I am in a nice little 
sleeping-room, well and charmingly fur- 
nished, and which I can call my room. 
How can I render the value of this pos- 
sessive pronoun I And I have a snug lit- 
tle study cabinet facing a large court, 
at the end of which is a charming small 
house, isolated, mysterious, and completely 
surrounded by floAvers. 


IZ- 

January 10. 

On entering my father’s house yester- 
day, I leaped upon the neck of Miss Dow- 
son, recently installed in a room contigu- 
ous to mine. This excellent woman, in 
keeping Avith her dignified and equani- 
mous character, made but slight returns 
of my emotions of tenderness. What a 
pity that Avith a heart like hers she is so 
stiff* and cold, at least in appearance ! 
Who could believe, on looking at her thus, 
tall, dry, yellow, and silent, with a face 
set in Avliite hair, that she was the model 
or type of devotion ? — a devotion mute and 
impassive, to Avhich the greatest sacrifices 
cost nothing, because self-abnegation has 
become a part of her nature. Her great 
study is to keep herself on the lowest 
plane. She Avalks without noise. She 
makes herself impalpable because she 
cannot make herself small. Her body 
seems to have been drawn out and passed 
under a flattening machine. It is nothing 
but skin and bones. I like to dAvell on 
her physical defects, for they seem to bring 
into bolder relief her excellent moral 
qualities. 


60 


ARTICLE Jf,7. 


Well, let us see. The world presents 
itself to me, at my first step into it, un- 
der a cheering aspect. Miss Dowson 
brought up my mother. It seems to me 
that my existence dates from the day of 
that terrible scene, the heart-rending pic- 
ture of which is often present to my im- 
agination. I was very young, only eight 
years old. I see my mother on her dying 
bed, young and beautiful, I see her black 
hair flowing around her pale, emaciated 
face. She calls me and puts my little 
hand in the bony hand of Miss Dowson, 
who, in a solemn voice, and with an emo- 
tion she wishes to suppress, makes a 
promise, the sense of which I did not 
understand till later in life ; a promise 
which she still keeps, and with which my 
father -is associated ; for he has just ex- 
plained to me that if he has been able to 
remove me to his own house, it is because 
my old friend. Miss Dowson, has consented 
to sacrifice her repose and come to occupy 
near me the post which she and he had 
sworn to confide to no other. 

****** 

This morning I gave to the porter my 
laced shoes and plush bonnet. I have se- 
lected some splendid boots at Meier’s. I 
have ordered many flowers to be put on 
my new love of a tulle hat to be sent to 
me presently. To-morrow I shall have a 
new dress of India foulard. So now I 
feel myself transformed. Ah, heavens ! 
who knows? What if some day I should 
become pretty ? At present, I am, if not 
ugly, at least ungraceful, beyond a ques- 
tion. But patience I I have long and 
thick black hair, which will participate in 
the general unfolding and amelioration of 
my whole being. No one shall prevent 
me from giving it full play. 

I am not pale enough, and have not 
an elegiac complexion. Ah ! if I could 
have been blonde and vapory, and could 
easily have nervous attacks, like Made- 
moiselle Georgina Mailly, who claws 
when out of humor, I should have been 
more highly appreciated. 

But, as an offset, I think I see advan- 


tages which will speak for themselves, — 
such as a delicate nose, and eyes that are 
called expressive, and 

But this self-description must stop 
here. I have not the courage to analyze 
myself any further. I ought not to, and 
yet I would like to be beautiful, but for 
myself — I might say, for the satisfaction 
of my conscience, because it seems to 
me that one ought to put in the list of 
the duties of a woman the obligation to 
please, and thereby to exercise her whole 
influence. A woman who neglects to 
please those whom she ought to love, and 
to diffuse around her a happy and salutary 
influence, is a queen about to abdicate. 

But I will not abdicate. I mean to 
attract and please every one about me. I 
have already begun my little task. I 
have tried to reduce Miss Dowson, but if 
I have had any success it is not yet ap- 
parent. She is a rock, that woman. She 
is like ice to all my affectionate ap- 
proaches. To say that she rolls herself 
up into a ball, when one flatters her, 
would not be an exact image, because 
of her erect and drum-major stature ; but 
she presents hardly anything but his as- 
perities, even to people she loves the 
most, and I well know that I am one of 
that number. No matter ; I will not be 
repulsed. I will bore into that rock, in- 
troduce my glycerine, and some fine day, 
by the aid of an electric spark, that rock 
shall change form. 

' January 16. 

Ah ! I have conquered a fervent and 
passionate admirer. It is my father. 
Ah, poor father ! Because you saw me 
devour greedily the chestnuts and sugar- 
plums that you used to give me in the 
parlor of our nunnery, — because I limited 
myself to inquiring after the little dog, 
or complained of the chilblains that 
chapped my hands, you thought that I 
was a ninny and that I had neither heart 
nor intellect. Well, just let me alone 
and you will see. 

The heart cannot have a full expansion 


THE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG GIRL. 


61 


except on condition of a certain liberty. 
When you appeared, in your rare visits 
to the nunnery, with a distracted coun- 
tenance, on which I read the traces of 
cares and troubles which you did not im- 
part to me, I said nothing. Now you be- 
long to me, I give you the warning, and 
there is going to be between us two a 
terrible struggle. 

Although quite a smalls girl, I was 
more of a woman than I had the appear- 
ance of being, and I guessed, — or had a 
presentiment, if you prefer the expres- 
sion, — of a mystery of which I shall have 
the key. Why that absence and sad ab- 
straction of mind that I was speaking of 
just now, and which were followed by 
pleasant and cheerful moments, which 
must have a motive? 

Why was my mother sometimes in 
tears when all alone? Why that habitual 
isolation? Why did she use to call me 
suddenly, and embrace me convulsively 
in silence, holding me a long time be- 
tween her knees, with her hands on my 
shoulders, looking me steadily in the eye 
to the very bottom of my soul, and try- 
ing to read in my looks a certain some- 
thing which disquieted me ? 

Perhaps she perceived death near at 
hand. 'Perhaps she felt that soon she 
would no longer be here to protect me, and 
wished to read in my soul what would 
become of me. Well, here I am, my 
good mother. I am a large and upright 
virtuous girl, and if I have rightly ap- 
prehended your thought I will not fail 
in the mission you gave me in silence. 

However limited the competence of a 
girl may be, she has her part to perform 
in the family. So long as she lives re- 
mote from the paternal home she thinks 
little upon all those questions which 
have a right to occupy her attention, and 
the thought of which, coming suddenly 
upon her, transforms and matures her. 

January 20. 

My father wished to show me the cu- 
riosities of the capital, and the plan of 


our excursion was concerted in my pres- 
ence with Miss Dowson. 

“We will visit,” said my father, “La 
Sainte Chapelle, Notre Dame, and the 
Museum of Cluny.” 

“ Oh !” said Miss Dowson, with that 
tone of voice quite Britannic, at the same 
time sharp and guttural, which is pecu- 
liar to her, “the Museum of Cluny!” 

It seemed to me, as she uttered these 
words, that her cheek-6o?ie6- were reddened 
by a blush. 

“You don’t like Sommerard’s collec- 
tion,” said my father. “Very well; we 
will omit this, and go to the Louvre to 
see the galleries of painting and sculp- 
ture.” 

“ Oh ! oh !” said again Miss Dowson, 
“ the halls of sculpture !” 

“Must we omit them also ? Be it so !” 

We set out after giving orders to the 
coachman to drive to Notre Dame. On 
the way my father said, “ What a miser- 
able quarter of the city we are going to 
cross ! Suppose we take, instead of it, a 
drive in the woods of Boulogne?” 

“ As you please, dear father,” said I. 

And that is the way in which I saw 
the curiosities of Paris. It is true that 
in the evening, in spite of the observations 
of Miss Dowson, I set foot for the first 
time in a theatre. I heard the Dame 
Blanche' 2 bt the Comic Opera. 

A friend of my father came to our box. 
His name is Mézin, Count de Mézin. He 
may be forty years of age. His dress is 
irreproachable and his manners elegant. 
To me he is charming. My father ap- 
pears to like him very much, and I ask 
for nothing better than to be on good 
terms with him myself. Here, then, is 
another whom I think I shall be able to 
manage. 


62 


ARTICLE Iff. 


ZZI. 

January 26. 

I HAVE a splendid idea, an idea so sub- 
lime, so admirable, that it is quite natu- 
rally destined to revolutionize the globe. 
The proof that I do not exaggerate is, that 
it has wrought a miracle at the first go-off; 
for it has melted the icy Miss Dowson, to 
whom I had only to suggest my idea. 
Without saying a word, she embraced me. 
I thought for a moment she was going to 
cry, but I was mistaken. 

Mon DieUj provided this idea is my own, 
and that nobody else has had it before me ! 
Well, — no matter, — I shall have, at least, 
the merit of propagating it, and triumph- 
ing over obstacles. 

And this is my discovery. 

I have found the means of suppressing 
poverty, of relieving the poor. There shall 
no longer be a single poor individual either 
in Paris or any other place where I shall 
be able to make my voice heard. 

Now, in order to bring this about, what 
is requisite? Almost nothing. It is sim- 
ply necessary that all the inhabitants of 
the same house should unite and adopt 
for all one single family. 

See what an imperceptible burden that 
imposes upon each. The proprietor ofiers 
gratis, according to the amount of his 
property, either an establishment for a 
numerous family, or a simple cabinet for 
an old man or an invalid. 

A piece of bread taken from the daily 
ration of each tenant feeds the adopted 
family. Cast-off clothing is set aside 
for it. Merchants give slightly damaged 
goods. This bread with which I feed my 
poor is not the bread of legal charity ; it 
is not the humiliating bread of alms. No, 
I create a bond, or tie, which brings the 
fortunate into connection with the unfor- 
tunate of this world. It is the old patron- 
age Christianized, and almost a family tie. 

“ The dreams of a young girl,” said my 
father, shaking his head with an indul- 
gent air, when I laid my plan before him. 

Ilis words contracted ray heart. 


Oh ! I understand, on reflecting better 
upon it. Men make little account of ideas 
which are not transformed into facts, and 
they are right. But patience ! Let me 
only succeed in forming a small nucleus 
of persons who will consent to preach with 
me this crusade against poverty, and they 
will see my idea expand. 

What? Be discouraged by a single 
word of opposition ! That is an evidence 
of a cowardly heart, and I know w'ell that 
mine is valiant. I will ultimate my plan. 

But here is Monsieur Be Mézin. I will 
inform him of my plan. What will he 
say to me ? 

He indulged in the same smile, mingled 
with indulgence and pity, which seems 
to be the response with which men receive 
us whenever we desire to abandon our 
rôle as mere puppets. But I did not allow 
him to shut himself up in this convenient 
silence, and called for his objections. 

“ I must have them,” said I ; “ if not, 1 
will not surrender.” 

“ Objections ?” said he, smiling ; “ why, 
they are abundant, mademoiselle. Pray 
do you know, in the first place, that you 
are preaehing communism, without sus- 
pecting it?” 

I did not understand, but was careful 
not to interrupt him. There will be time 
enough afterwards to know what com- 
munism is. 

“ And then, you know, to multiply aid 
is to increase the number of the poor.” 

“Agreed,” said I, “if you speak of 
injudicious assistance, which encourages 
idleness ; but I am speaking to you of the 
intervention of the rich in order to stimu- 
late the zeal of those who can labor, and 
furnish them with work.” 

“ Yes, I understand it, — universal fra- 
ternity ; that, believe me, is a Utopian 
idea.” 

“ Utopian 1 That is a frightful word, 
and I hate it instinctively. It produces 
upon me the effect of a large lock destined 
to close the door against every good idea.” 

For Heaven’s sake, what do you know 
about it, whether it is Utopian or not? 


THE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG GIRL. 


63 


Try it, at least. The plan is worth the 
trouble. When you shall have been 
everywhere repulsed, it will be time to 
declare yourself opposed to it. 

February 12. 

Victory ! a victory rather small, but 
showing that I have taken one step to- 
wards the realization of the project to 
which I obstinately cling. It is to my 
father that I owe this success. 

I had understood that he could not 
spend all his evenings with me. For the 
first few days he had given up his circle ; 
but at my request he rejoined it. and the 
next day brought me a large ransom as 
the price of the liberty I had given him, 
namely, five hundred francs for my poor. 
Moreover, he has authorized me to put in 

• practice my favorite idea. Our house 
will have its adopted family, but, until 
now, adopted by me alone. I shall devise 
means of uniting in one family the scat- 
tered tenants who inhabit our house in 
Leonia Street. 

I must occupy myself with our sur- 
rounding. It is not very numerous. 
Above us lives a young physician, al- 

* ready celebrated, by the name of Paul 
Combes. I have seen him but very little, 
and yet I have contracted towards him a 
debt of gratitude for the devoted cares 
which, in my absence, he bestowed upon 
my father. He is absorbed in his profes- 
sion, but I think I can count upon him. 

At the lower end of the court is a 
pretty pavilion with a fine garden before 
it. It is occupied by an aged lady who 
lives alone with her son. They call her 
Madame Gérard. I meet her every day 
at mass ; I salute her, and she regards me 
with visible interest. It appears that she 
lives very retired and receives no com- 
pany. I love to see people present them- 
selves every morning, as she and I both 
do, in the presence of God and themselves. 
She is extremely sympathetic towards me. 
There is in her manners a reserve, and a 
discretion full of nobleness and dignity. 
She and her son appear to be sufficient 


for each other. If I could only find out 
their secret ! How I should like to be as 
sufficient to my father ! 

They are both of them seen every day 
taking care of their garden and little 
greenhouse, in which they keep their 
rarest and most beautiful flowers. It is 
a real paradise, whose magnificence at- 
tracts my attention in spite of myself. 
I worship flowers, and confess that some- 
times I am jealous of those who are 
enjoying themselves in cultivating them 
at the farther end of our court. 

I sometimes listen, and then I hear 
waltzes by Chopin, fragments of Schu- 
bert, or Mozart, played on the piano with 
feeling and exquisite taste, by the son, 
George Gérard. My chambermaid told 
me that was his name. 

I cannot think, without a little uneasi- 
ness, that if the sound of his piano reaches 
my ears, he must hear me also ; and I 
dare no longer play the pieces which he 
executes ; not only because I should not 
play them so well as he, but especially 
because I should have the appearance of 
opening a musical dialogue with that 
young man, with whom I am not ac- 
quainted* 


IV. 

February 15. 

This morning I hear a loud noise in 
front of my chamber window, which looks 
into the street. 

“Cut the traces,” cry several voices; 
“ he will not be able to rise, for his leg is 
caught under the shaft and his head has 
struck on the pavement.” 

A brutal, wine-excited voice predomi- 
nates over the voices of the by-standers, 
yelling, “ Mind your own business ; this 
is my afiair, and I have no need of you.” 

And then are heard those terrible 
blows of the teamster’s whip, which are 
so constantly witnessed in Paris, and 
which are so painful to the ear and the 
heart. 


64 


ARTICLE Jtl. 


I promised myself never to look into 
the street when such scenes of cruelty are 
taking place. The- emotions occasioned 
by them are useless. What assistance can I 
afford to those poor horses that are so fre- 
quently and unmercifully abused ? I can- 
not even join my voice to that of persons 
interceding for them. If I were a man, I 
would rush into the street, help them to 
rise, relieve their sufferings, and chastise 
their brutal masters ; I would 

But my position and my sex limit me 
to my window, and I might as Avell not 
be there. 

Nevertheless, to-day the noise is in- 
creased in such a manner, and so great is 
the uproar in the street, that curiosity gets 
the better of me. I run to the window, 
open it, and from behind the partly- 
opened blinds I look into the street. 

Oh, my God ! it is frightful 1 

I behold, some distance from me, in the 
middle of the street, a heavy cart loaded 
with stones. The shaft-horse, a poor, old, 
infirm animal, hardly anything but skin 
and bones, has slipped, and is lying pros- 
trate on the pavement, one of his legs is 
half broken. His large, white head, still 
intelligent in spite of suffering and old 
age, lies flat on the ground. Blood is 
gushing from his mouth, and one cannot 
help thinking that he sees large tears 
starting from his half-closed eyes. 

Some of the stones in the cart, violently 
thrown forward by the fall, have fallen 
on the back of the poor creature and are 
pressing him down with their whole 
weight. 

Horrible to toll, it is upon this infirm, 
sick, and wounded animal ^that this team- 
ster is going to inflict his revengeful 
cruelty. 

He wants him to rise immediately, and 
strikes him to make him do Avhat is im- 
possible. 

Heavens, how infamous ! Is it possible 
there are. such cruel men in the world? 

What 1 will not some policeman come 
and put an end to such barbarity? No, 
the policemen, as my father said the other 


day, are never in the place where they are 
most needed. 

Have not all these people there under 
my window, Avho see what is going on, 
have they not a spark of humanity about 
them, have they no pluck? 

Standing on the sidewalk, they look on, 
make reflections and give advice. Mean- 
while an old man has advanced and said, 
“ You do Avrong, my friend, to beat that 
animal.” The teamster laughed in his 
faee, and cracked his whip around his 
head. The old man was afraid, and soon 
disappeared in the crowd. 

Some good souls, I ought to state, re- 
moved the stones which half covered the 
poor animal. Others clung on to the hind 
part of the cart, and endeavored to re- 
lieve the pressure upon him. But the 
horse suffered only the more cruelly for it. 
The shaft, being raised intermittingly, 
falls again with its Avhole weight on the 
wounded leg. 

“ Very well,” says the teamster, this 
horse seems determined not to rise. Wait 
a moment, and I will give him courage. 
As the lash of my whip does no good, I 
Avill see what virtue there is in the 
handle.” 

Then he takes his whip in both hands, 
and using it as a club, raises it over the 
horse’s head. 

I wish to retire from my windoAV, as it 
is too painful to witness such horrors, but 
an invincible force attaches me to my 
place. 

What are you doing there, you men ? 
You must see that he is going to strike, 
and yet you satisfy yourselves Avith mur- 
muring Avhen you ought to act. 

I call for a man of heart and courage, 
not only to help the horse but to chastise 
that brutal driver. It is not only pity 
that I feel, but anger and indignation. 

A second more, and the whip-handle will 
fall upon that poor, suffering animal, 
which has closed his eyes and seems wait- 
ing for the blow. 

I utter a shriek and a loud ery. 

What! have I been heard? I think so, 


THE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG GIRL. 


65 


for a man has just made his way through 
the crowd. He has sprung upon the team- 
ster, and seizing his whip, exclaims, — 

“ I forbid your beating that horse !” 

“What are you meddling with?” said 
the teamster, insolently. 

“No matter. Obey my order.” 

“ The horse is mine, and I have a right 
to whip him.” 

“ That may be, and yet I forbid your 
doing it.” 

“ Are you one of the police?” 

“No.” 

“ Then retire.” 

“ I will not.” 

“ Ah, has it come to this? You not of 
the police, and undertake to dictate to me ! 
Very well. We shall have some fun now. 
We two must settle this matter.” 

By a sudden movement he plucks the 
whip from the driver’s hands, takes two 
steps backward, and surveys his adversary. 

I from behind my window survey also 
the young man who has suddenly come to 
the rescue. 

He was a man from thirty-four to thirty- 
six years of age, tall, thin of flesh, pale, 
and with very large and mild black eyes. 
He was very plainly dressed in black. 
He wore a well -fitting dress-coat, his 
hands were naked, but he held in his 
right hand a pair of gloves. 

If a struggle occurs between these men 
it is evident that the teamster will have the 
best of it. For he might be called a Her- 
cules. His wrists are enormous. He has 
the neck of a bullock, broad shoulders, a 
large, round head, upon which is planted a 
forest of short, thick, and straight red hair. 

He is conscious of his strength, for he 
seems to be moved with pity towards his 
adversary. And after looking at him a 
minute, he laughed insolently in his face 
and said, — 

“ Come, clear out now, or I will give 
you a thrashing.” 

“ I defy you,” was the simple reply of 
the young man, crossing his arms and 
looking his adversary steadily in the eye. 

My opinion is that, being intimidated 


by this self-possession, the driver would 
have calmed down but for the common 
people, who surrounded and urged him on. 
He felt that he had an audience to play to. 

“ They will fight, they will not fight,” 
cries one. 

“ The blouse is afraid,” said another. 

“ The black coat is the bravest,” said a 
third. 

“ Hurra for the coat !” 

Then the teamster, being thus spurred 
on by the crowd, roars and swears and 
rushes headlong upon his adversary. 

The latter, at the moment when this 
lump or mass was about to hit him full in 
the breast, leaps nimbly to one side, and 
the driver, obeying his acquired momen- 
tum, falls heavily upon the pavement by 
the side of his horse. 

“Bravo! bravo!” shout the gamins. 
For them there is no longer any blouse 
or coat. They see only the victor and ap- 
plaud him. 

But the man has risen again. 

Blinded by anger and mad with rage, 
he feels in his pocket, draws a knife, and 
advances. 

“ Take care, take care,” they now cry 
out on all sides, “ he will kill you! He is 
armed! Escape! That’s not fiiir ! down 
with the knife ! Arrest him !” 

“ Let him alone,” said the young man, 
with a pleasant smile. 

When the driver, renewing his attack, 
raises his armed hand, the young man 
quietly unfolds his arms, extends them, 
seizes the wrists of his adversary, shakes 
them violently to get rid of the knife, 
which falls to the ground, and then de- 
liberately, without haste, as if it were a 
gymnastic exercise, whilst the astonished 
crowd applauds, he twists the wrists of 
the miserable wretch with such muscular 
force, and crushes his bones with such 
vigor, that distracted, fainting, and en- 
tirely subjected, he begins to cry out, — 

“ Pardon!" 

Then the conqueror, still smiling, drags 
his victim near to his horâe, and points to 
him : 


66 


ARTICLE 47. 


‘‘Did you pardon or show any mercy 
to him?” said he. “ You were his supe- 
rior, possibly, and you beat him and 
abused him. Now, down upon your 
knees, and ask pardon, — not of that poor 
animal, which cannot understand you 
maybe, but of God, whom you have 
offended by maltreating one of his crea- 
tures. Come, down upon your knees!” 

The man is disposed to resist; but, 
under the slow pressure of him who holds 
his wrists, his arms bend, his legs give 
way, his body trembles, and he falls on 
his knees. 

Then the young man opens his hands, 
lets go his adversary, and the latter, con- 
quered and submissive, slowly rises. 

Applause and cheers are heard from all 
sides, and I from behind my window- 
blinds could not help crying out hravo ! 

Did that young man hear me? It 
seemed to me that he lifted towards me 
• his gentle and melancholy eye. 

But his task is not yet finished. He 
approaches the teamster, still dejected and 
trembling, and says to him, — 

“ Are those horses and that cart yours ?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Very well ; I will buy the horse which 
you have just been abusing. He is not 
worth two hundred francs, but I will give 
you three hundred. I am not willing that 
you should avenge yourself on this poor 
beast, by-and-by, for the treatment I have 
made you undergo. Do you consent?” 

“ I must obey, sir,” said the man, who 
had suddenly become polite. “ How can 
you be resisted?”, 

“Now then .to the work, and I will 
help you. Lend us a hand here, men,” 
addressing himself to the spectators. 

In a moment the cart is raised up, and 
the horse, disengaged from his heavy har- 
ness and helped by ten arms, slowly rises. 

His new owner whispers a word in the 
ear of one of the boys around him, slips a 
piece of money into his hand, and the 
animal, escorted by the lad, goes slowly 
away, dragging his bruised leg along with 
him, and the crowd disperses. 


The teamster harnesses one of his draft- 
horses to the shaft, and the young man, 
still unassuming and quiet, soon disap- 
pears in the direction taken by the horse. 

I could not help thinking that the poor 
creature turned his head round once in 
a while to look at his benefactor. Who 
knows but he was conscious of what had 
just taken place? Who shall say that 
animals have not souls and reasoning 
powers ? Who will contend that they are 
not immortal? 

I will not attempt, at present, to solve 
this great question. I am still excited by 
the scene I have just witnessed, and full 
of admiration for manly physical power 
exerted in the accomplishment of a good 
object. 

What a change is this in me, who for- 
merly thought physical strength useless 
in a fashionable man ! 

I was wrong. To be strong, and not 
appear to be so ; to be strong, under ele- 
gant and distinguished personal appear- 
ance, is grand ! 

Who, pray, is that young man ? 

I should like at least to know his 
name. For he is good, brave, and gen- 
erous. 


Note. — T he preceding chapter will not be 
without interest to all who would like to see 
punished, in one way or another, all who are 
unmerciful to dumb animals. The hero of this 
novel, as has been seen, takes the law into 
his own hands; and it is hoped that other 
young men, who are fearless and physically 
powerful like him, whenever they witness cru- 
elty to animals, will not wait for law or police- 
men, but proceed immediately to the relief of 
the animal and the chastisement of the offender. 
Public opinion will be sure to bear them out in 
it. Will not young ladies everywhere encourage 
their brave and athletic male friends to imitate 
the example of this hero ? — Translator. 


THE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG GIRL. 


67 


■V. 

February 19. 

Finally I know who he is. 

I was going out with Miss Dowson, 
when I noticed a person who, standing 
before the porter’s lodge, seemed to be 
asking for information. He turned his 
back to me, but I was sure I had seen 
that figure somewhere. 

Suddenly he turns round. It is he ! 
the unknown. I cannot be mistaken. He 
raises his hat and steps aside to let me 
pass. I proceed on with Miss Dowson. 

What does this mean ? What does he 
come here for ? 

Soon after, on returning, assuming an 
air of indifference, I said to the keeper, — 

“It is well understood, is it not, that 
you are not to let, without informing me, 
the little vacant apartment in the fifth 
story ? I shall perhaps have need of it for 
my poor.” 

“I have not let it, mademoiselle. I 
understood you.” 

“ I was afraid a little while ago that 
you had. For a gentleman was talking 
with you when I went out, and I sus- 
pected he wanted to hire of you.” 

“Oh, no occasion for anxiety, madem- 
oiselle, he is already living on the estab- 
lishment. and is your tenant at the end of 
the court. Monsieur Gérard, Monsieur 
George Gérard, who occupies with his 
mother the little pavilion.” 

“You relieve me,” said I with a smile, 
in order to conceal my surprise, and I 
retired. 

Ah, that is Monsieur Gérard ! I am 
glad of it ; his mother is very kindly dis- 
posed towards me, and must be very happy 
with such a son.” 

* * * * * * 

Alas, my efforts are in vain ! My father 
is very prodigal away from home. I have 
done everything to restrain him and please 
him, but I must confess to myself that I 
have failed. My first efforts were so suc- 
cessful ! I cultivated his affection for me. 
This affection has not diminished, but I 


have felt that conversation between him 
and me was gradually becoming more and 
more difficult. 

I thought that the remembrance of my 
mother would be a sacred bond between 
us ; but when I evoke her memory, it 
seems that I awake a remorse in my 
father 5 for he frowns, is silent, looks at 
the ceiling, and soon closes the conversa- 
tion in his usual way. He takes his hat 
and goes out. I watch for his return, and 
often sit up to a late hour of the night. 
He scolds me, and does not wish me to 
wait for him thus. I see, with grief, that 
he comes home agitated and uneasy. 
****** 


March.' 

My grotto continues to resound with 
the songs of my neighbor. Evidently he 
has more than one talent, for he whips 
teamsters with the hand of a master, and 
modulates on his piano, with exquisite 
grace, the most touching airs. He is a 
cooing dove ; but, in time of need, a roar- 
ing lion. 

It is no use to talk. I must go and 
call on his mother, since I have announced 
my visit; and yet this visit intimidates 
me somewhat. 

After all, the question is about a good 
work, and the poor, whom we ought to 
take under our protection, should not 
suffer from my foolish timidity. Where 
shall we go to find them ? Madame Gérard 
has hers, and I have mine ; but I am be- 
coming difficult to please. I would not 
like to have any of the poor who belong 
to public or private benefaction, and 
whose poverty has become a habit, I 
might say almost a profession. 

****** 

March 10. 

I HAVE just summoned up my courage, 
and, with Miss Dowson on my arm, have 


68 


ARTICLE If!. 


been to make my visit to Madame Gérard. 
Her garden and greenhouse are charming. 
It is impossible to bring together within 
a limited space plants more wonderful 
and group them with more taste. People 
who can be thus fond of flowers cannot 
have a bad heart. I was afraid of meet- 
ing with Monsieur George Gérard, but he 
did not appear. I am sorry, however, 
not to have been able to see him nearer, 
to have talked with him a few moments. 

I had decided to be very agreeable to 
his mother, and think I succeeded. The 
beginning of our conversation was replete 
with kind feeling. 

“It is very obliging in you, mademoi- 
selle,” said Madame Gérard, “to think 
of those who are suffering, — in you., I say, 
on whom everything smiles, and who 
would be so excusable if you permitted 
yourself to be absorbed by the pleasures 
of your age.” 

“ Do you think, madame, that it is not 
a pleasure, and the liveliest of all, to seek 
to relieve suffering and misery ? Why, 
at this very moment, I feel already re- 
warded for this idea, since it affords me 
the great pleasure of talking with you.” 

“ All the pleasure is on my side, made- 
moiselle 5 for I live alone, avoid the world, 
and have decided to admit into my retreat 
only one sort of diversions, which you 
have the good taste to appreciate viz., to 
do a little good. My very sad life can 
have no other joys.” 

“Very sad, do you say? Why, just 
now, while crossing this garden which 
you have made an oasis., I said to myself 
that, surrounded as you are by beautiful 
flowers, and living quietly far from the 
cares of the world, one ought to breathe 
the air of paradise.” 

“ You are right, mademoiselle, and I 
am ungrateful to Providence. I am every- 
thing to my son, and he is all the world 
to me. We are absorbed in each other, 
to the extent of making it a law for 
ourselves to see no one and to have no 
friends.” 

“ I think you do wrong to impose on 


yourself this isolation without neces- 
sity.” 

“ Without necessity, say you?” 

Hereupon the features of the poor lady 
were contracted, and I saw the tears start. 
She then, with some effbrt, replied, — 

“Without necessity, as you say ; it is a 
caprice, but it is stronger than our will.” 

Her voice failed her, and I felt that I 
had been indiscreet, that I had unskill- 
fully touched a tender chord ; and so I 
suddenly changed the subject of conver- 
sation. 

I wished to atone for my awkwardness, 
and find a topic of remark that might be 
more agreeable to this poor woman. At 
the risk of not appearing sufficiently re- 
served, I made an allusion to her son, as 
that was the only means of putting my- 
self on a footing that would certainly be 
agreeable to her. 

“Are you fond of music, madame?” 
said I. 

“ Very ; but I regret that I cannot make 
any.” 

“ That is perhaps a better condition for 
enjoying its charms. An unknown land- 
scape often affects us more agreeably than 
one that is familiar. Your favorite authors, 
I believe, are Chopin and Beethoven.” 

She appeared surprised at this remark. 
I saw that I had gone too far. I blushed, 
rose, and left a little confused. 


March 23. 

Mon Dieu ! what is going on ? My 
father has just entered my room, and 
said, in a manner which he endeavored to 
render calm, — 

“ Marcelle, do you happen to have in 
your desk any thousand-franc bills lying 
about which you have no use for ? If you 
have, please give them to me, as I have 
immediate use for them.” 

These words went to my heart. That 


THE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG GIRL. 


69 


mystery that I wished to know I no 
longer wish for, I no longer dare to in- 
vestigate. I see only one thing, — my 
father has an urgent need of money, and 
does not think it his duty to tell me why, 
and it is not permitted me to ask him. 

I have, indeed, some money in one of 
my drawers, hut that money is not mine, 
as it belongs to my poor. It is not only 
destined for them, but it has been prom- 
ised them. They rely upon this resource, 
and if it should fail what will become of 
them? Nevertheless, I do not hesitate, 
and hand over to my father my little 
treasure. He goes out, and at the end of 
a couple of hours returns to give me the 
information that I was far from expect- 
ing. “ I am going,” said he, “ to spend two 
or three days at Hombourg. I leave you 
with Miss Dowson, who will try to make 
you forget my absence.” Immediately he 
rings for his servant, gives him orders and 
departs. 

And here I am alone. I have frightful 
presentiments. A journal falls into my 
hands, and I see in it, on the fourth page, 
among the advertisements : 

“ Hombourg. The administration offers 
to travelers the advantages accorded to 
the most favored establishments.” 

I do not understand. What urgent busi- 
ness can call my father to Hombourg, 
where he is not acquainted with any one? 

Oh, it is cruel to be a woman, — to be 
useless, to be powerless ! 

Why did God give us a heart, if it is to 
repress all our feelings, and not even 
know what is passing around us? How 
is it that when we ask only to devote 
ourselves, we are not judged worthy of 
knowing the trouble from which they 
suffer whom we love the most? 

What is that shameful and cruel rôle 
to which young girls are destined or con- 
demned ? Let us see, let us see ; I wish 
to understand it, I want to get at the se- 
cret of our destiny. It is impossible that 
God has placed us upon the earth in order 
to condemn us to this passive condition, — 
that he has said to us, “ You shall suffer. 


and you shall not know why. You shall 
have noble instincts and high aspirations, 
but you shall not be able to satisfy them, 
inasmuch as you are bound to know 
nothing and to do nothing.” 

March 26 . 

I breathe more freely. My father has 
returned. I know not whether he is 
satisfied with his journey, but I have 
him now under my hand, and it seems to 
me he can no more escape me. I was 
wrong to be so frightened. This journey, 
after all, was not long, and solitude has 
not been a bad thing for me. It has 
given me clearer ideas on many things. 

One thing troubles me, however. My 
father does not speak of the money I lent 
him, and I feel some shame and remorse 
when I think I shall not be able to keep 
my promise to my poor. I shall not dare 
to go and see them. 

* * * * * * 

What my father has just done is charm- 
ing and full of delicacy. For several 
days I have really suffered on account of 
my poor. But it was necessary to decide 
to go up and see them, though with 
empty hands. The first I met astonished 
me by addressing me thanks, which I at 
first thought ironical. But not so ; he 
had actually received the promised sum. 

“And who brought it to you?” I 
asked. 

“ A very distinguished gentleman, who 
lives on your premises, mademoiselle.” 

On my second visit, the same thanks, 
astonishment, and explanations. 

It did not require a long time to un- 
derstand that my father had found a 
delicate method of returning the money 
he had borrowed of me. I leaped with 
joy. Not only was I square with my 
creditors, but I found my father such a 
man as I wish always to find him. 

I had hoped that Madame Gérard 
would return my call, for I should have 
liked to see her during those days I re- 
mained alone, but nobody came. But 
she had told me plainly that she wished 


70 


ARTICLE jp'. 


for neither friends nor acquaintances. 
This misanthropy is sad. She must have 
suffered very much. But why condemn 
her son to this life of seclusion? That is 
a singular trait of character. It is very 
strange, and to he regretted. I should 
have liked this lady very much. 

I kept watching for my father. As 
soon as I was able to see him, — which 
was not very easy, he comes home so 
seldom, — I sprang to his arms, saying, — 

“ Thanks 1 you have made me very 
happy. What a fine surprise you have 
effected, and how well you have kept 
your secret ! So you were watching me, 
in order to become acquainted with my 
poor and be able to carry to them the 
money I had promised them ? Miss 
Dowson has assured me it was not she 
who gave you the necessary informa- 
tion.” 

“What do you mean?” said my father. 
“ Of what poor do you speak, and of 
what surprise ? I declare to you that I 
do not understand one word of what you 
are telling me. No, my dear Marcelle ; 
unfortunately it was not I who carried 
money to your poor. I have in these 
latter days serious troubles. Pardon 
me, my child; I have a great deal of 
anxiety.” 

He left me after these painful words, 
and I remained crushed and filled with 
consternation. 

So I was not mistaken. My father 
suffers, my father is unhappy, and I can 
do nothing for him 1 

By the Vay, who, pray, can have taken 
it upon himself to help my poor in my 
name? A gentleman living in our house, 
they say. Monsieur Paul Combes, per- 
chance. No, a physician does good in 

another way; he visits the sick, h*e 

Then, if it is not my father, if it is not 

Monsieur Paul Combes, it is It must 

be so, as there is no other tenant in the 
house. Yes, it is he, it is Monsieur 
George Gérard ; I cannot doubt it. But 
in order to know who my poor are, he 
must have watched and have followed 


me. Ah ! that was very naughty. I did 
not expect that from him. 

April 10. 

I see my father less and less. He 
sleeps all the morning, and often at two 
o’clock in the afternoon he is not up. 
Why go to bed so late? They must enjoy 
themselves very much at his club. When 
scarcely dressed he leaves, to return only 
about a quarter of an hour before dinner. 
At table he tries to talk and to animate 
the conversation, but his mind is not 
with us. He appears absent-minded and 
restless. Pray, what is the matter with 
him ? Oh, I would give everything in 
the world to know I 

At half-past eight Count De Mézin is 
announced. He has been in the habit, for 
the last month, of coming to see us every 
day. Formerly, after saluting me and 
inquiring after my health, he used to re- 
tire to my father’s room and go out with 
him. But now he stays at least a good 
hour in the drawing-room. 

He talks, tells the news, is especially 
polite to mtô, and I endeavor to be so to 
him, in order to detain him as long as 
possible, that is, to retain his friend. 
But it is a difficult thing. About half- 
past nine my father rises from his arm- 
chair and says to Monsieur De Mézin, 
“You forget, my friend, that they are 
waiting for us. Are you going ?” 

Monsieur De Mézin, who cannot re- 
main alone with me, is obliged to follow 
his friend. Soon I retire, and hear no 
more of my father till two o’clock the 
next day. 


"V-XZI. 

April 13. 

* * * * * * 
Madame Gerard has not entirely for- 
gotten me. I have just received from her 
a magnificent bouquet of moss-roses. This 
souvenir has afforded me great pleasure, 
but I still hold a grudge against her son. 


THE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG GIRL. 


71 


And yet, what would have become of my 
poor had it not been for him? No mat- 
ter. One ought not to follow people to 
see what they are doing. 

I have put into my hair one of the 
flowers of the bouquet. My neighbor will 
see me perhaps at my window. That 
will be one way of thanking her. 

Suppose I should return to her house ! 
No. In that case I should doubtless meet 
with Monsieur Gérard, and I should pre- 
sent to him a bad face. When I get over 
my angry fit, we shall see ; to-morrow, 
perhaps. 

* * * * * * 
April 16. 

But he is not guilty. I have absolutely 
nothing to reproach him with. I have 
been unjust to him. It is all very simple ; 
and I cannot explain to myself how I 
could have been silly enough to accuse 
this young man of following me and 
watching my conduct. 

This is what took place. 

The two families which I am trying se- 
cretly to protect were, some days ago, 
represented to Madame Gérard as worthy 
of attention. Feeling ill and unable to 
go out, she commissioned Monsieur Gé- 
rard to carry assistance in her place. 

The unfortunates on whom he called, on 
the part of his mother, asked for the 
name of their benefactress. On account 
of his modesty he was not willing to give 
it, but gave to understand that she lived 
in Leonia Street. As these good people 
already knew ‘that I lived in that street, 
they quite naturally supposed that Mon- 
sieur Gérard was my agent, and the idea 
did not occur to them that they had tAVO 
protectresses instead of one. So he was 
guilty of no indiscretion in regard to me. 
He did not even know that I was in the 
cause, and thought probably very little 
about me. 

He meddle with other people’s business ! 
He follow and watch people ! What non- 
sense ! He is quite too timid for that. 

Yes, timid. That seems extraordinary. 


after what I saw from my window. But 
he obeyed then a sentiment of compassion 
and justice, and could not suppress his 
indignation. He departed for a moment 
from his natural character. 

I noticed that after his scene with the 
teamster he cast an almost frightened 
glance- around him. One might have said 
that he felt ashamed of having exhibited 
himself as he did, and that he was afraid 
he had been recognized by one of the per- 
sons who were looking at him. 

• I decided the other day to make another 
call on Madame Gérard. Could I delay 
any longer to thank her for her bouquet, 
and had I not promised her a visit? 

Miss Dowson accompanied me. But 
the servant-girl who introduced us was 
at first unwilling to receive us. It seems 
that she is forbidden to allow strangers to 
enter the retreat of her master and mis- 
tress. But she remembered having al- 
ready seen us, knows that I live on the 
same premises, and therefore soon ap- 
peared more accommodating. 

“Please walk into the parlor,” said she, 
“ and I will announce you to madame.” 

• We entered, and I found myself sud- 
denly in the presence of Monsieur Gérard, 
whom the servant thought, undoubtedly, 
in another room. 

On seeing us, he rose suddenly from the 
sofa on which he was lying, and stam- 
mered some words of excuse. He was 
evidently confused and fretted at being 
thus unexpectedly surprised. He recov- 
ered himself, however, requested us to be 
seated, and was about to go for his mother, 
when the latter entered the parlor. 

During the conversation which we four 
had together, and which lasted nearly an 
hour, I had an opportunity to make some 
observations on Monsieur Gérard. 

He puzzles me a little, I must confess. 
I am astonished at his mysterious and un- 
occupied existence at thirty years of age, 
for he cannot be much more than that, 
and at his sedentary life, which is incon- 
sistent with the extraordinary strength 
Avhich he displayed the other day under 


ARTICLE 47. 


my own eyes, and which is not met with 
ordinarily, my father told me, except in 
men who live in the open air and are en- 
gaged in physical or corporeal labors. 

If he seldom goes out, which they say 
is the case ; if his time is spent in this 
parlor where I found him, and in the gar- 
den which I can see from my windows, 
how can he have that brown, tanned com- 
plexion which one sees so rarely in Paris ? 
Has he perchance lived a long time in the 
south of France or America? 

And then, there is in his whole person 
something sad, indicative of suffering. 
He talks but little, and in a very soft and 
timorous voice, so to speak, as they do in 
the convent during study hours, for fear 
of being reprimanded. 

If the conversation interests him, and 
/ . . . 
he becomes animated, his voice is sud- 
denly accented, and his eyes, which he 
kept downcast, are raised, his look becomes 
frank and loyal, and he is no longer the 
same man. 

Ilis gait is usually languishing, or flag- 
ging. He walks like a man feeling his 
way, with his head down, back curved ; 
and then suddenly he straightens up and 
holds himself as much more erect as he 
was just before bent over. One would say 
that he was trying to correct himself of 
a bad habit. 

When he consents to speak, he ex- 
presses himself in excellent terms, and 
says things very just and often elevated. 

His conversation resembles in no re- 
spect that of Monsieur De Mézin. As 
much as the latter is sportive and trivial, 
so much does George Gérard show him- 
self calm and serious. The one talks in 
order to say something, no matter what ; 
the other to express his thoughts. We 
hear the one, but listen to the other. It 
is evident to my mind that our neighbor’s 
son must have lived a good deal in soli- 
tude, sole alone with himself, having no 
other amusement but to reflect upon great 
questions, debate them in his mind, and 
solve them perhaps. 

I have said he must have suffered. One 


would hardly believe it, as he shows him- 
self so indulgent and kind. We naturally 
spoke of the poor and unfortunate. But 
he did not use one of those common re- 
marks which Monsieur De Mézin con- 
stantly indulged in, such as, “ There are 
no poor but such as wish to be so. Every- 
body can work. To give alms is to en- 
courage idleness, and lift it into a profes- 
sion.” Monsieur Gérard, on the contrary, 
maintains that many of the unfortunate 
have struggled and labored energetically, 
and have applied for public charity only 
when they could not avoid it. 

“ Everybody cannot work,” said he. 
“ Among those shut off from labor, we 
must reckon the sick, the infirm, the dis- 
couraged, and those who have formerly 
committed some fault, who have been 
punished for crime, and whom society re- 
jects. All these unfortunate ones ought 
to be helped, without asking whether their 
infirmities are the result of vice, or the 
faults they have committed are deserving 
of eternal reprobation.” 

Ah, what generous, noble thoughts ! 

It afforded me great pleasure to hear 
Monsieur Gérard express himself in this 
way. And while he was speaking, his 
mother appeared so happy ! I feel very 
seriously attracted towards her, and am 
gradually becoming attached to her. I re- 
joice in her joys. Perhaps this sympathy 
and this sort of attraction come from the 
fact that Madame Gérard reminds me of 
my mother. She has the same look, the 
same smile, and the same extraordinary 

sweet tone of voice. She has made a con- 

% 

quest of me, and if I were not afraid of 
being indiscreet I should go to see her 
often. But have I a right to disturb the 
solitude with which my neighbors seem 
to be pleased? 

****** 


•THE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG GIRL. 


73 


IX- 

April 22. 

Many things which have astonished me 
in Monsieur Gérard are quite naturally 
explained. He must have been a naval 
officer. In the first place, Madame Gé- 
rard happened to say once in my presence, 
that she had been separated from her son 
a long time. That is quite natural ; he 
was at sea. Again, that swarthy com- 
plexion that struck me ; that bodily 
strength which active life and sea air 
must impart ; that slow and dragging step 
of the sailor, whose promenade is very 
limited 5 that habit of lowering the head 
and bending the back acquired between 
decks 5 and especially that reflective 
character, those continual reveries, that 
constant melancholy, that elevation of 
thought, evidently peculiar to men living 
in comparative isolation, far from all 
worldly pleasures, incessantly exposed to 
great dangers, and having before their 
eyes only the immensity of the sea and 
the sky. 

****** 

May 3. 

Somebody rapped at the door of my 
room to-day about noon, and I said, “ W alk 
in.” It was my father, whom I had not 
seen since yesterday. 

He would not sit down, as I wished 
him to; but, after inquiring after my 
health, said to me hastily, as if in a hurry 
to get through, — 

“ Monsieur De Mézin has just asked 
me for your hand in marriage. What do 
you say to that?” 

Petrified by this blunt attack and this 
unexpected news, I made no reply ; my 
father continued as follows, — 

“ Mézin is an excellent man, well situ- 
ated in the world, has a good name, and 
a handsome fortune. He appears to love 
you in good earnest. I ought to have 
discovered it sooner, for his friendship for 
me has increased ever since you left the 
convent. But Mézin is only five#or six 
years younger than I ; and, accustomed 


to regard him as a friend, I have never 
thought that he might become my son-in- 
law. In spite of his forty, or forty-five 
years, he still appears very young. He 
is good-tempered, and would endeavor to 
make you happy. From other motives 
which I will not mention, and which 
ought not to influence your decision, I 
would see this marriage with pleasure. 
But my duty at present is to inform you 
of the request, to favor it without insist- 
ing too much, and to request you to an- 
swer. Examine at your leisure. I leave 
you to your reflections.” 

He kissed me, and left without adding 
a single word. 

****** 

I am bewildered. AYhat ! Monsieur De 
Mézin ! Never should I have thought — 
And I appeared so amiable towards him ! 

He may have thought 

I used to beg of him to prolong his 
visits, and would say to him, — 

“What makes you in such a hurry? 
Wait a little longer.” 

I retained him in order to keep my 
father. He did not see that my amiability 
was not personal to him. 

And now he asks for my hand, and if 
I refuse it he will accuse me of coquet- 
ting. He will have a falling out perhaps 
with my father, who appears to take so 
much pleasure in his company. And yet 
I cannot marry him ! Oh, no ; I cannot 
even think of it ! In the first place, I do 
not like him. But do I know ? In order 
to know that I don’t love him, it would 

first be necessary No, no, he is not 

my type, he is not 

My type? Who, pray, is he? Can it 
be Why, no What am I think- 

ing of, when the question is about Mon- 
sieur De Mézin? It is of him only that I 
am required to think now. 

Very well. The answer required from 
me is all ready ; I refuse. 

But my father told me he should regard 
this marriage with pleasure, for reasons 
he could not give me. 

What reasons? 


74 


ARTICLE Iff, 


• Ah, mon Dieu ! if what I have thought 
for several days is true ; if I have not 
been mistaken as to the causes of my 
father’s absent-mindedness and sadness ; 
if he has experienced some great pecuni- 
ary loss ; if he is a ruined man I he is 
thinking perhaps of separating from me, 
of taking another establishment, or of 
leaving the country, and wishes to marry 
me off as quick as possible. 

But I am rich. He told me that I 
had a large dowry. I will give it to 
him with all my heart. He shall remain 
with me ; he shall make no change in his 
life, and I will not marry Monsieur De 
Mézin. 

Yes, I am rich, I had never thought of 

that ; but now, I cannot help Ah I 

that is naughty in me ! That gentleman 
has never done anything to make me 
think he is selfish. It is quite enough to 
refuse his hand, without also 

And yet I have the right, when the 
question is about so grave a matter, to 
stop at the suppositions which come into 
my mind. Monsieur De Mézin does not 
love me, and he cannot. He expresses 
himself too lightly on all subjects to have 
any serious, honest sentiments ; and if he 
asks for my hand, it is evidently 

No, something tells me that the ques- 
tion is about my father and of his inter- 
ests. In our conversation soon after my 
leaving the convent, at the time when we 
passed a good part of the day together, 
he gave me to understand that he had on 
the subject of my marriage certain fixed 
ideas, and which would realize hopes en- 
tertained 'formerly by my mother. Mon- 
sieur De Mézin cannot have any connection 
with those hopes. If my father commu- 
nicated to me his request, it was because 
he was constrained to do so. It was be- 
cause his interests, his existence perhaps, 
are at stake. 

Is it not, therefore, my duty to sacrifice 
myself? Ah ! I know not what to think, 
what to say, or what to answer. Who will 
advise me? 

Miss Dowson. Why did not I think 


sooner to take counsel of her who 
brought up my mother, who was her 
confidante and friend, with whom she 
often spoke of me ? 

Poor Miss Dowson ! She is so silent in 
her little corner, and makes so little noise, 
that she is never thought of. I will go 
to her. 

I entered, took a stool, and placed it 
near her arm-chair. I sat down and re- 
lated to her everything my father had just 
told me. 

Prom the first words she raised her 
head, interrupted her embroidery, which 
she keeps constantly in her hand, and 
listened to me attentively. 

AY hen I asked her her opinion, she said 
to me these words, — 

“ Mariage impossible V 

“AYhy?” asked I. 

‘•'’Impossible!' she repeated. 

“Dear Miss Dowson,” said I then, in 
order to frighten her, and induce her to 
explain herself, “ if you do not give me 
better reasons, I shall think you have 
none, and shall carry to my father the 
answer which he is waiting for and de- 
sires.” 

“ Is that so?’' asked she. 

“ Doubtless.” 

“AYill you marry the count?” 

“If you do not tell me why I ought 
not to marry him.” 

“AY ould not the request or prayer that I 
might address to you be sufficient?” 

“ It might for the moment. But if 
my father should address to me another, 
perhaps then his would prevail over 
yours.” 

“Ah I” said she. “Then the time is 
come. I cannot hesitate.” 

She arose in silence, went to an old 
piece of furniture which she uses as a 
writing-desk, and opened it with a key 
which she always carries suspended from 
her neck. Then she took a small red 
morocco pocket-book, drew from it a black, 
sealed letter, and handed it to me, saying 
only these words, — 

“ Read ; it is from your mother.” 


THE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG GIRL. 


75 


I took the letter respectfully, bade adieu 
to Miss Dowson, and, after shutting my- 
self up in my room, I broke the seal and 
read. 


I TRANSCRIBE the whole of this letter, 
that it may be better impressed on my 
heart. 

“ I have but a few more days to live, 
my beloved daughter, and I wish to con- 
secrate them to you. I wish to talk with 
you incessantly and open to you my whole 
heart and soul, not to the child that you 
now are and of course incapable of under- 
standing me, but to the young woman 
that you will hereafter be. The malady 
from which I now suffer, and of which I 
am going to die, will not permit me to 
write this letter at one sitting, for my pen 
w'ould fall more than once from my hand -, 
but I shall resume it courageously, con- 
quer my pain, and go on to the comple- 
tion of my task. 

“Meanwhile, I address to heaven the 
most' fervent prayers that this task may 
be useless, and that this letter may never 
fall into your hands. This is my most 
ardent desire. My friend and sister. Miss 
Dowson, the only confidante of my deepest 
and most secret thoughts, will give it to 
you only when she sees that you are in 
real danger and your future exposed to 
perils that I would have you shun, and 
which experience, alas ! has taught me to 
know but too well. The circumstances 
must be very grave and the danger immi- 
nent, for you to be called upon to read 
these lines, in which I shall have occasion 
more than once to judge and blame the 
conduct of him whom I have loved the 
most after you. 

“ Soon after marriage with your father, 
about ten years ago, I accompanied him 
to Italy. , 

“ This journey lasted three months, and 


was charming. It was the happiest period 
of my life, and I recur to it in memory 
with the greatest pleasure. 

“ I remember that I was greatly amused 
by the astonishment and admiration 
evinced by Monsieur De Drives. 

“ ‘ You have probably never traveled,’ 
said I. 

“ ‘Yes, a good deal.’ 

“ ‘ I should never have suspected it,’ said • 
I, laughing. ‘ When we enter a museum, 
one might safely say that you look upon 
pictures for the first time. And the as- 
pect of the sea excites in you ecstasies alto- 
gether ne^^. Pray, what countries have 
you visited?’ ✓ 

^ “‘Well, Germany, for instance, several 
times.’ 

“ ‘ And yet there are museums in Ger- 
many.’ 

“ He ended by confessing that of Ger- 
many he was acquainted only with the 
watering-places, such as Baden, Hom- 
bourg, Wiesbaden, and others. I did not 
know as yet what charms these places 
had for him. 

“ In my simplicity I imagined he was 
attracted thither by the beauty of some 
landscape or the society to be met with. 
But I was soon enlightened on the sub- 
ject. Scarcely had we returned to Paris, 
when your father proposed to travel again. 

“ ‘ In your favorite countries,’ said I ; 

‘ in Germany, doubtless ?’ 

“ ‘ If you wish it.’ 

“ ‘ I wish what pleases you,’ said I, 
and we departed. 

“ The evening of our arrival at Baden, 
Monsieur De Drives took me to a place 
they call Casino, Kursaal, or conversation 
hall, as you please. I had occasion after- 
wards of becoming familiar with all these 
mfmes. There was a theatre. The Co- 
médie Française was enacting one of its 
best pieces. Your father, after seating 
me in an arm-chair, and remaining some 
minutes near me, asked of me permission 
to go and smoke a cigar on the prome- 
nade, promising to rejoin me soon. 

“ At the end of one hour he had not 


76 


ARTICLE 47, 


returned-, at half-past ten, the play ended, 
and I was still alone. What was to be- 
come of me? Return to my hotel? I 
did not know the name of it. As I was 
consulting with myself, I perceived that 
at the end of the gallery where the comedy 
had been given there were saloons towards 
which many persons seemed to be tending. 
I followed them, and soon entered a hall 
rather dimly lighted. Strange sounds 
attracted my attention. One might have 
thought they were occasioned by the 
moving about of piles of gold and silver. 
At the same time I heard phrases like the 
following, — 

“ ‘ Play, gentlemen 5’ and a moment 
after, ‘ The red loses,’ etc. 

“ I couldn’t understand it, and was the 
more confused as I could not see anything. 
A compact crowd was standing in the 
middle of the hall, and seemed to sur- 
round the place whence those noises came. 

“ Gradually, however, curiosity helping, 
I mustered courage to follow a lady mak- 
ing her way through the crowd on the 
arm of her husband, and I slipped in be- 
hind them.. I was enabled then to dis- 
cover an immense green table. 

“ My eyes fell first on the centre of the 
table. Four individuals, grave, cool, 
clothed in black, were seated on big stools. 
One had cards in his hand, and was shuf- 
fling them over before him. A second was 
arranging silver and gold in a large box 
with compartments. The two others kept 
moving about, right and left, on the table, 
large racks, by which they brought in 
bank-bills and pieces of money of all 
countries. 

“Around these gentlemen, seated close 
together, were to be seen some fifty per- 
sons of both sexes, whose sole occupation 
seemed to consist in pushing out in front 
of them sums of money, which the racks ^ 
or rakes, immediately took from them, or 
else in pricking with pins small pieces of 
pasteboard, on which were inscribed two 
letters of the alphabet, N and R, the first 
in black, the second in red ink. 

“ If I give you, my dear Marcelle, these 


details which you have nothing to do 
with, it is because they are engraved on 
my mind in indelible characters. From 
this fatal evening date all my sorrows, and 
I cann.ot forget anything connected with 
it. My thought reverts incessantly to the 
spectacle I am trying to describe to you. 
Things the most insignificant appear to 
me as if I saw them still ; and even while 
I write, I think I hear murmuring in my 
astonished ear those words so new to it, 

‘ Play, gentlemen, play,'' etc. 

“A moment’s reflection sufiiced to dissi- 
pate my astonishment and to understand 
what was going on before me. 

“Educated in a convent, and married 
soon after leaving it, I was on many points 
ignorant and simple, but this ignorance 
had certain limits. I had seen card-play- 
ing, and learnt the use that might be made 
of it. I was looking around me and try- 
ing to understand the progress of the play, 
and to explain to myself why some lost 
and others gained, when these words 
struck my ear, — 

“ ‘ Maximum à la rouge' 

“ At these words a certain movement 
was made in the crowd of spectators, and I 
profited by it in order to take a step for- 
ward. I found myself thus in the front 
rank, standing behind the players, and 
saw your father seated in front of me. 

“Before him was displayed a quantity of 
gold and bank-bills. With his head down, _ 
and forehead in his hand, he was looking 
with surprising steadiness at the cards 
which one of the four persons of whom I 
have spoken turned up on the table. 

“ By a frown and gesture I understood 
that he had just lost. At the same time 
a young woman near me said to her 
neighbor, — 

“ ‘ You will see that Monsieur Be Brives 
will lose all that he has won.’ 

“ ‘ Instead of stopping,’ said one, ‘ I am 
sure that. he has more than a hundred and 
sixty thousand francs before him, and he 
began to play with ten thousand.’ 

“ ‘ So,’ continued the young woman, 

‘ the bank does not seem to be uneasy. 


THE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG GIRL. 


77 


It knows his hahits, and knows that he is 
one of the most obstinate and persistent 
gamblers in the world. Every year at 
Baden, Ilombourg, and Wiesbaden, I see 
him gain considerable sums, and yet he 
returns to Paris empty-handed.’ 

So it was not chance which had led 
your father to this gaming-table 5 he had 
been drawn to it by habit, urged on by an 
irrepressible passion, lie was known as 
a gambler, and his name was known. He 
had acquired a reputation at the watering- 
places. He would risk in one evening 
hundreds of thousands of francs. He was 
the principal character at this gaming- 
table. All eyes were fixed upon him. 
They studied his physiognomy. He was 
the preferred man of the bank, and re- 
ceived the greatest attention. Instead of 
a common seat, they gave him an arm- 
chair. 

“ I understood now the astonishment of 
Monsieur De Drives in front of a beauti- 
ful picture, or in presence of a magnifi- 
cent landscape. He had never had the 
time to study the arts and admire nature. 
A green oarpet, cards and gold, were all 
he needed to satisfy his imagination and 
, delight his eyes. lie asked for no other 
view, no wider horizon. 

“ I could now see why we had returned 
so soon to Paris, and why three months 
had sufficed to visit all Italy. It was 
because the watering-places were waiting 
for him. Baden and Hombourg claimed 
him. 

“ My prevision did not deceive me. 
Your father lost in a few minutes some 
forty thousand francs. 

“ I had my eyes fixed upon him ; but ab- 
sorbed in gambling, he did not see me. 
Suddenly, at last, he raised his head and 
threw a glance around him. 

“ I have learnt since what he was look- 
ins: for. I think he told me himself. 
Superstitious as all gamblers are, he had 
just said to himself that some one among 
the spectators would be the cause of mis- 
fortune or bad luck to him, and he was 
trying to discover who it might be. 


“ When he saw me his cheeks colored up. 
He thought, doubtless, I was still in the 
theatre, and was ashamed at being thus 
taken by surprise. Perhaps he had hoped 
to conceal from me for a long time yet 
his terrible vice, and he blushed to see it 
revealed so suddenly and in so manifest 
a manner. 

“ He had tried to smile, but my troubled 
look had given him to understand what I 
was suffering. He held down his head, 
and as one of the bankers asked him to 
announce his stake, or play, he put some 
bank-bills on the table. He lost them 
and several more. 

“At times he seemed desirous of putting 
his money in his pocket and of rising from 
the table, but an invincible force fastened 
him to his seat. 

“ He continued playing, never resting, 
occupied only with throwing gold and 
bank-bills upon the table, which the 
banker immediately swept off. 

“ Finally he had no longer anything 
before him. 

“ He rose from the table ; and, as if they 
were waiting for this moment to stop the 
play, the banker and the other gamblers 
rose also. It was eleven o’clock and some 
minutes. 

“ Then your father came to me, offered 
me his arm in silence, and we proceeded 
to our hotel. 

“ When, a half-hour after, we were alone 
he said to me, — 

“‘I beg your pardon, Marcelle, for 
having left you thus all the evening. But 
chance led me to the gambling-table, 
where I risked some money. Fortune 
favored me at first, as you may have 
noticed, and I was tempted to play longer 
than I would have wished.’ 

“ I answered without weakness, — 

“ ^ What you put to the account of 
chance ought to be attributed to habit. 
You took me to Baden because you could 
not leave me alone in Paris at the end of 
three months’ marriage. You came here 
with the intention of gambling. You 
deserted me this evening to go to the 


78 


ARTICLE Jt7. 


gambling-room, where you are known by 
everybody as a gambler.’ 

He saw that it would be useless to 
deny it; and besides, falsehood was 
always repugnant to your father. True, 
he has caused me to suffer a great deal, 
but I recognize in him great and beauti- 
ful qualities. The heart is not connected 
with his errors. That he has preserved 
excellent and unchanged. All the faults 
he may have committed against me are 
only the consequence of his unique and 
fatal passion. 

“ ‘ I do not know,’ said he, after a 
moment’s reflection, ‘how you learned, 
or guessed, what you have just said to me, 
but I will not lie. People have not de- 
ceived you, or rather, you have not been 
mistaken in the judgment passed on me. 
It is true that I love gambling. I have 
tried every way to conquer this injurious 
habit, but have not been able to succeed. 
When I have remained for some time 
without touching cards, my blood boils, 
my head is on fire, my nervous system is 
unnaturally excited, and I am sick. I 
have the gambler’s fever, as journalists 
have the printer’s fever. They would die 
if they could no longer smell the odor of 
damp proof-sheets. 

“ ‘ Balls, concerts, theatres, have no at- 
traction for me. In the winter I enjoy 
nothing but my club. In the summer 
nothing pleases me but the watering- 
•places. I had hoped, my dear, to conceal 
from you for a long time yet this sad 
passion, but chance has taught you the 
whole. ' I am sorry for it, but I think it 
wise to make a clean breast in this matter, 
and to have a full understanding of the 
case. Why did I marry you ? How did 
the idea of asking you to become my wife 
occur to me whose ruling passion is 
gambling ? These are questions you will 
naturally ask. The answer is very sim- 
ple: I loved you. But how could the 
sentiment of love find a time to enter my 
heart? I cannot say. I thought per- 
haps that you might be to me both a 
remedy and salvation. In your company 


I hoped to become another man, to subdue 
my dominant passion, and consecrate my- 
self wholly to your happiness. I call 
heaven to witness that this was my most 
ardent desire. But it has not been real- 
ized. I love you as in the beginning, and 
feel for you a tenderness which nothing 
can change. I am ready to make to you 
every sacrifice but one. Take me as I 
am. Do not waste your energy in a use- 
less struggle against my dominant vice. 
You cannot conquer it ; but I will en- 
deavor to make you forget it by my re- 
spect, love, and devotion.’ 

“ He told me all these unreasonable 
things in a serious and affecting tone of 
voice, and I well understood that there 
was no reply to be made, — no further 
reasoning, no more endeavors for his 
reform. 

“ I see myself still, sad and desolate, 
sitting in an arm-chair near the fireplace, 
and listening to him in silence. 

“ Suddenly I arose, advanced towards 
him, and, taking his hands in mine, 
said, — 

“‘But we may have children. Have 
you thought of our children ?’ 

“ ‘Of course I have. But how can they . 
suffer from my errors ? When they shall 
be old enough to understand them, it is to 
be hoped that I shall have reformed.’ 

“ ‘ But suppose you have ruined them, 
and that they find themselves in pov- 
erty?’ 

“ ‘Ah, never 1 never ! The worst that 
can happen is that I may lose all I pos- 
sess, but I solemnly swear never to touch 
your property.’ 

“ He kept his word. 

“ Many times since this scene have I 
seen him under cruel pecuniary embar- 
rassments ; but never has it entered his 
mind, I feel sure of it, to ask me for my 
signature or to suggest an alienation of 
my rights. 

“ So, my dear child, if I write you this 
letter, it is not to entreat you to be as 
firm as I certainly should have been, had 
it been necessary. It is not to put you 


THE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG GIRL. 


79 


on guard against the demands of your 
father, if you should come of age before 
you are married, and therefore have a 
right to dispose of your fortune. 

“ Monsieur De Drives will keep the 
promise he has made to me, that he will 
never touch what belongs to you. I 
have his word for it. Ah, if I had been 
able to extort from him also an oath that 
he would never gamble, how sure I 
should have been of him ! But my 
prayers and supplications have always 
been in vain in this direction. 

“ ‘ No,’ he would say to me, ‘ I will 
not take that oath, for it would be too 
cruel for me to keep it.’ 

“ If I tell you all these things and 
write you this long letter, it is with one 
single end in view, my child, and that is, 
to put you on guard against a bad or 
unsuitable marriage, and to prevent, es- 
pecially, a marriage with a gambler. I 
have suffered so much, as you have al- 
ready seen. 

“ To love a man to adoration ; to have 
given him the whole soul, and then have 
to say to yourself that he gives you in 
requital but a part of himself 5 to have a 
rivfil, a thousand times preferred, that 
cannot be got rid of and against whom 
one cannot contend, and to whom one is 
constantly sacrificed without a hope of 
anything in return ; to say to yourself, 
even when he is near to you, sitting by 
your side, that your husband does not 
belong to you, that his thoughts are else- 
where, that he is thinking how he can 
find some new method of propitiating 
fortune or conjuring fate ! 

“To be waiting for him through ^le 
entire night; to see him return at six, 
seven, and ton o’clock in the morning, 
pale, disfigured, and broken down, to rest 
only till evening, and in the evening con- 
tinue the game only interrupted by the 
morning ! 

“ Not to be able to accept an invitation 
to a fashionable party; for, being with 
his cluh, he will not come for you per- 
haps at the proper hour, and you don’t 


wish to have the appearance of being a 
poor, neglected woman. Not to be able 
to rejoice at his cheerfulness, as you 
know that gain at cards is the cause of 
it, nor share his sadness, which can in- 
spire no interest, as it can be attributed 
only to some loss. These two words, 
gain^ loss, have alone the privilege of af- 
fecting him. In them his whole life is 
summed up. 

“All this without reckoning the con- 
stant pain of seeing disappear little by 
little a fine fortune, which one would 
have been so happy to bequeath to his 
children, and which, wisely managed, 
would certainly have been increased. 

“ Such, my darling child, have been 
my sorrows, which have been cruel, I as- 
sure you, perhaps mortal ; and I wish to 
preserve you from them. 

“ Listen well to what I am going to say 
to you, for death, which is not far off, 
gives me a sort of prescience or intuition 
of the dangers which may threaten you. 

“ The time will come when your father 
will take you from the convent. He will 
endeavor to procure for you the greatest 
possible diversions, but he will not be 
able to offer you the only ones which 
would be suitable for you. For a long 
time he has broken with all his connec- 
tions. The life which he leads does not 
allow him a moment of respite. He has 
been obliged to give up visits, receptions, 
dinners accepted and reciprocated, and 
soirées, which alone, among fashionable 
people, give rise to and keep up good so- 
cial and visiting acquaintance. He sees 
only his club friends, and is connected 
particularly only with persons who share 
his tastes, and whom he finds every even- 
ing at the same gambling-table. These 
are the persons whom you will meet at 
his house, and to whom he will introduce 
you. It is one of them who, charmed by 
your youth and accomplishments, or only 
desirous of repairing with your dowry 
the breaches made in his own fortune by 
gambling, will ask for your hand in mar- 
riage. 


80 


ARTICLE Jfl. 


“ Your fatlier will not have the courage 
to refuse. Perhaps it will not be in his 
power to do so. Oh, my God ! my ma- 
ternal solicitude authorizes me to foresee 
everything. Perhaps he will be indebted 
to this friend to a considerable amount, or 
has contracted towards him one of those 
debts called debts of honor, which place 
one man at the mercy of another. I do 
not think your father will ever entertain 
the thought of making a speculation out 
of your marriage, or of uniting you with 
a person unworthy of you ; but he will 
be disposed to deceive himself in regard 
to this person, to be blind to his faults, 
and to exaggerate his merits. He will 
hesitate above all, through self-love, to 
confess to himself that a gambler is not 
worthy to become a husband and a father. 

“ It is therefore for you, my dear child, 
to put yourself on guard against every 
surprise, to show yourself firm and strong 
when the question is about confiding your 
entire destiny to one man. It is for you, 
I say, finally, to take upon yourself the 
task, for your own sake, which I should 
have been so happy to fulfill. 

“ Ah, if it should then be permitted me 
to come to your aid, how well I should 
know how to guide your choice ! I would 
say to you, do not become attached to 
external appearances. Seek not a bril- 
liant exterior, title, or splendid establish- 
ment. 

“ The man who will please you, if you 
will believe me, should be from thirty to 
thirty-five years of age. Under thirty, 
one is still quite young 5 and above that, 
it is necessary to be cautious. It is true, 
there is not a great disproportion between 
a young woman of twenty and a man of 
forty. - But ten years, fifteen years, later, 
this difference is frightful ; for the woman 
is still in the vigor of age and splendor of 
beauty, but the man is on the verge of old 
age. 

“The husband I would choose for you 
should be neither handsome nor ugly. 
He should be plain and simple in his dress 
and manners, with a fortune which would 


secure to him independence, nothing 
more, and enable him to do a little good 
around him. This good he should do 
personally and judiciously, without ever 
consulting others about it. Charity should 
as rarely as possible be admin istbred by 
proxy. He must be fond of home-life and 
the domestic fireside. He must cultivate 
the arts ; for nothing will protect a man 
against the dissipations and vices of the 
world like music and painting. 

“Finally, I should wish that your hus- 
band should be well educated, thoughtful, 
serious, and perhaps even of a nature 
somewhat sad. Sadness, when not ex- 
aggerated, is not displeasing in a man ; 
for it indicates that he has suffered and is 
acquainted with life. 

“ Such is an outline portrait of the hus- 
band that I would have selected for you, 
and whom you, I hope, will choose in my 
place, my dear child, in remembrance of 
me. 

“ I have yet many things to say to you, 
but this letter, already long, has ex- 
hausted the little strength that remained 
to me. The physician has surprised me 
with pen in hand, scolded, and ordered me 
to take my bed. I know what that 
means -, it is probable I shall never leave 
it alive. Your father has not left me for 
eight days. He is perfect towards me. 
One might say that he wishes to make me 
forget the many sorrows he has inflicted 
upon me. Oh, had it not been for the 
fatal passion that rules him, how happy 
he might have made me ! Love him, my 
dear child, with all your heart. Be in- 
dulgent to his faults, show him your af- 
fection by all the means in your power ; 
but do not yield to him the choice of your 
husband. This is not only a prayer that 
I address to you, it is an express will^ 
my last will, which I make known unto 
you. 

“ Farewell, my beloved daughter ; I im- 
press on this paper long kisses for you. 
If this letter ever falls into your hands, 
you will apply your lips, in your turn, to 
the place where I am writing these last 


THE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG GIRL. 


81 


lines. Perhaps it will still be impregnated 
with my breath. Perhaps time will re- 
spect the trace of my kisses.” 


Xll. 

After meditating on this letter, weeping 
on re-perusal, and pressing it to my lips 
for a long time, I went to my father’s 
room. 

“AVell,” said he, on seeing me, “do 
you bring me an answer? I did not ex- 
pect it to-day.” 

“ And I did not think I could give it.” 

“ In what a tone you say that, and 
with what a face ! What is the matter 
with you, my dear child? Has any one 
hurt your feelings ? Am I guilty of some 
indiscretion ?” 

“ No, dear father, you have never been 
otherwise than kind and good to me, and 
that is the reason you see me so sad at 
this moment.” 

“ I don’t understand you.” 

“ In exchange for your cares and at- 
tention I have come to displease you. 
You have selected for me a husband, you 
advise me to marry him, and — I refuse 
him.” 

“ Ah, you refuse him I” 

“ Yes, father.” 

“ Have you reflected before coming to 
this decision ?” 

“ A great deal.” 

“ And yet you will confess that Mon- 
sieur De Mézin pleases you in many re- 
spects.” 

“I do; but in many others he does 
not.” 

“What have you against him? Ilis 
age, forty -two?” 

“ I might object to that, if more serious 
reasons did not guide my refusal.” 

“May I know them?” 

“ You would oblige me by not asking 
for them.” 

“ I am very desirous of obliging you, 


but you will confess that I have a right 
to be a little exigent in this case ; for the 
count is my friend, and I should be glad 
to know what can be said against him.” 

“ Do you insist upon my telling you?” 

“ I beg of you to do so.” 

“ I have every reason to think that 
Monsieur De Mézin is a gambler.” 

My father bit his lips, and said, — 

“ What can make you think so?” 

“ Many things ; but in case I am mis- 
taken, it is easy for you to set me right. 
Can you affirm that Monsieur De Mézin 
never gambles?” 

“ No, I cannot affirm that. He plays for 
amusement, as everybody does.” 

“ And a little more than everybody, 
does he not? In a word, he spends his 
nights in the club-room, and often risks 
considerable sums at cards.” 

“ But ” 

“ I appeal to your honor, father. Tell 
me that Monsieur De Mézin is not a gam- 
bler, and I will marry him.” 

My father made no reply. I then took 
his hand, and said affectionately, — 

“ You will not talk to me any more of 
this marriage, will you, dear father?” 

“ Be it so ; I will not. But I am dis- 
pleased with Miss Dowson. She has pre- 
judiced you against Monsieur De Mézin.” 

“ I declare to you that she has not. 
Miss Dowson has not spoken to me of your 
friend.” 

“ Then she has preached against gam- 
bling and gamblers.” 

“She would not, perhaps, have been 
much out of her way,” said I, with an at- 
tempt to smile. “ But Miss Dowson does 
not preach. In order to preach, one must 
open the mouth, and you know that hers 
is padlocked.” 

“Whence comes this antipathy to gam- 
blers ?” 

“ From instinct, dear father.” 

“ You are wrong. They have some 
good in them.” 

“To whom do you say this?” said I, 
leaping into his arms. 

He understood the meaning of this 


82 


ARTICLE 47. 


hasty movement, and said, with a sad 
smile, — 

“You know, then ” 

“I know that I love you, that’s all.” 

He took me in his arms, looked at me 
as if he was trying to recall other features, 
when a tear glistened in his eyes, and he 
applied his lips for a long time to my fore- 
head. 

Oh, my father is good! A moment 
after I said to him, — 

“Will you allow your daughter to in- 
terest herself in your affairs?” 

“ But ” 

“ Who should feel an interest in them, 
if not I ? Am I not the one you love the 
most in the world?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Am I not a grown-up, reasonable 
young woman?” 

“ I confess it, more reasonable than is 
usual for one of your age.” 

“Very well. You ought to comply 
with my wishes.” 

“ Say on.” 

“ Do you, in the first place, promise to 
tell the whole truth?” 

“ I will try to.” 

“ We shall see. Answer this first ques- 
tion : Have you not some pecuniary em- 
barrassments ?” 

“ What are you driving at?” 

“ Please answer ; we shall see after- 
wards.” 

“Why?” 

“Oh, do answer !” 

“Well — yes, I am, at present, I ac- 
knowledge, not without some perplexties 
and trouble.” 

“Well, you must get rid of them.” 

“Oh,” said my father, smiling, “I 
could ask for nothing better. But the 
means of doing it 5 if you can devise them, 
you must be very expert.” 

“ Then I am very expert, for I have 
found them.” 

“Indeed! That is interesting. Will 
you allow me to light a cigarette ?” 

“ All the cigarettes on earth.” 

“ Well, now for the means.” 


“ They are the simplest in the world : 
I have a dowry, dispose of it.” 

“ Truly ? That is what you have found, 
then, and I was seriously listening to 
you.” 

“ I am not serious, then ?” 

“ Very serious and adorable. But you 
know nothing about business. And sup- 
pose that I were — how shall I express it? 
— suppose I were unscrupulous enough to 
accept your proposition, I should be none 
the better off for it. Learn then, my 
simple child, that minors cannot dispose 
of their fortune.” 

“ Ah ! And I shall not be of age till I 
am twenty-one?” 

“ Exactly so.” 

“ Alas !” said I, with a sigh. “And T 
have still more than two years to wait !” 

“ Unless you get married ; marriage 
emancipates.” 

“ Indeed ! If I should marry, could I 
dispose of a part of my dowry?” 

“ With the consent of your husband.” 

“Oh, he would give it to me; for I 
would make that a condition. To how 
much does my dowry amount ?” 

“ It may amount to about four hundred 
thousand francs.” 

“ Why, I should then be too rich for my 
tastes. Dear father, we will divide, won’t 
we? Say yes.” 

“ Never.” 

“ I will oblige you to accept.” 

“ In the first place, it would be neces- 
sary for you to get married,” said he, 
laughing ; “ and you don’t seem to me 
very accommodating. Poor Count De 
Mézin might bear witness to that, in case 
of necessity.” 

“ Oh,” replied I, “ Monsieur De Mézin 
is not the only man on earth.” 

Our conversation ended in this way. I 
went then to Miss Dowson, read to her 
my mother’s letter, and we wept over it a 
long time together. 


TUE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG GIRL, 


83 


XlII. 

May. 

T^’’0 days elapsed, two days during 
which I did not, for a moment, cease to 
think upon my mother’s letter. I have 
weighed every word of it, I. have medi- 
tated and commented upon it. I desire 
to obey not only the wishes which are 
expressed in this letter, in a manner so 
clear and precise, but even the least de- 
sires which I can imagine she might have 
expressed. 

As to what concerns marriage, my de- 
cision has been made. I will neither 
marry Monsieur De Mézin nor any one 
of my father’s friends. But I wish to be 
married ; yes, I dare write these words ; 
I wish to marry, because by marrying I 
fulfill a duty ; I obey also the last wishes 
of my mother, who said to me, “ Love 
him with your whole heart, be indulgent 
to his faults, show him your affection by 
every means in your power.” 

What better way of showing this affec- 
tion than by* trying to free him as soon 
as possible from the cares that torment 
him ? ' 

Ah, my mother’s letter has opened to 
me unknown horizons ! How many things 
are now explained for me ! 

When my father left me in the even- 
ing in so much haste, it was to go to the 
club to continue the game of cards begun 
the day before. 

If I did not see him the next day till 
towards two o’clock in the afternoon, it 
was because the game had been continued 
until morning, and that he went to bed at 
the hour when every one usually gets up. 

That loan he got of me one day I can 
explain now. It was to pay, in a short 
time, a debt contracted by gambling. 

And that sudden departure for Ilom- 
bourg ! He was going probably to try to 
be more lucky in that city than he was in 
Paris. 

That impatience, sadness, and long 
silence, — I can divine the cause of the 
whole of it. He kept losing, always los- 


ing. And that marriage ! Alas ! he was 
probably constrained to speak to me 
about it. He is probably the debtor of 
Monsieur De Mézin. Yes, I now remem- 
ber certain words which cannot leave me 
in any doubt on the subject. Monsieur 
De Mézin took advantage of his position 

as a fortunate player, and my father 

But he simply proposed to me this mar- 
riage ; he had not the courage to advise it. 
As soon as I refused him he did not in- 
sist, and immediately sacrificed his inter- 
ests, very grave interests perhaps, to my 
happiness. 

And should I not endeavor to come to 
his aid ? I am rich and he is poor. What 
matters it how he became so ? “ Has that 
anything to do with him who bestows a 
favor?” said Monsieur Gérard the other 
day. I am living tranquilly without cares 
of any sort, and my father, who is here 
with me under the same roof^ suffers and 
is tormented. Yes, I wish, and I ought, 
to marry. The half of my property shall 
be consecrated to the payment of my 
father’s debts, and to the securing of his 
comfort and well-being. If my husband 
does not join in my project, it will be be- 
cause he has no heart, and then I will not 
make a husband of him. 

I am astonished ! I speak of husbands 
absolutely, as if I had only to stoop to 
conquer one. 

Where are they? Let us see. Am I 
acquainted with any ? No. Who are the 
young men my father has introduced 
to me? Who are they that I have ac- 
cidentally met with? It is in vain to 
look for them. I see no one, — absolutely 
no one v 

Ah, what a — what a fib ! 

If I have not the courage to say in this 
journal what I think, — if I cannot bo 
frank with myself, — I might as well tear 
up these pages and never more open this 
album. 

May 12. 

No, I am not mistaken. It is perfectly 
clear. I must confess that the portrait 
drawn by my mother of the person she 


84 


ARTICLE Jfl. 


would wish me to marry applies exactly 
to 

Ah, yes ! Why should I not write it, 
since I have been saying it to myself in- 
cessantly for eight days ? 

This portrait is that of Monsieur George 
Gérard. “ He must l5e,” said my mother, 

simple in his dress and manners. lie 
must have a fortune which will secure 
him independence, nothing more, and 
which will allow him to do a little good 
around him. This good he must do him- 
self. He must be fond of family, life and 
the domestic fireside. He must cultivate 
the arts. Finally, I would like that he 
should be educated, thoughtful, serious, 
and, perhaps, even a little melancholy by 
nature.” 

One would think indeed that, by a 
sort of intuition or divination, my mother 
was drawing the character of the first 
person with whom I should come in con- 
tact on leaving the convent. 

She is in heaven now, and is constantly 
watching over me. Is it not for me to 
divine her wishes and to understand 
her? 

Happiness is perhaps here, close by, 
in my own house. My mother points to 
it. “ Behold,” says she, “ the man who 
will be suitable for you, to whom I 
would have confided your destiny with 
plesusure. He is the husband of my 
choice, and I wish that you, in your turn, 
will choose him among all others.” 

But if I am mistaken, — if, while think- 
ing I p.m obeying my mother, I am obey- 
ing only Ah ! I don’t know what to 

think. Is it my mother who is speaking? 
Is it simply my heart? Or have we 
now — she and I — no longer but one and 
the same soul ? 

* * * * * * 

I am trying to amuse myself. I oblige 
Miss Dowson to take a walk with me. I 
talk, and talk, so much that I succeed 
sometimes in untying the tongue of my 
dear companion. I am reading some in- 
teresting books which she has been to 
buy for me, for she is very well educated. 


this Miss Dowson. She is a reservoir of 
information, to which one may have re- 
course without ever being disappointed. 
But she resembles a dictionary, which 
says nothing unless consulted, and every- 
thing if you open it. 

Yesterday my father wished to devote 
an evening to me, and took me to the 
theatre. But, in spite of all amusements, 
I have one fixed idea. My .thoughts run 
constantly upon the will expressed by 
my mother and the portrait sketched by 
her. 

Ah, how one suffers from a fixed idea ! 
One no longer belongs to himself, and 
can no longer direct the thought to a 
single end. It, is incessantly ruled by 
another thought, which does not come 
from you, which you have not invoked, 
which intrudes itself in spite of you, and 
absorbs your whole being. 

Perhaps it is the physical influencing 
the moral. I have felt quite unwell for a 
few days. I have at times a palpitation 
of the heart, so violent that it seems to 
me I must suffocate. Of what disease 
did my mother die? It has neyer been 
exactly defined to me. 

May 20. 

I no longer dare to return to Madame 
Gérard’s. Why is that? Why should I 
not do to-day what I did so easily yester- 
day, and with so much pleasure six weeks 
ago? 

It seems to me that I should be 
ashamed, that I should blush and feel 
confused. And yet I should like to see 
her. 

I should like, also, to be • awhile with 
Monsieur Gérard, in order to take a new 
look at him. It may be that I have been 
mistaken, and that he does not at all re- 
semble the portrait drawn by my mother. 

Ah ! I should like to be satisfied about 
it. Then I should be more tranquil. I 
should no longer think I hear my mother 
say, “ I have marked out a line of conduct 
for you, and you do not follow it.” 

And how am I to follow it? 


THE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG GIRL. 


85 


Is it for me to make a visit to Monsieur 
Gérard? Formerly, I used to call on his 
mother. Now^ in my present state of 
mind, it would be himself that I should 
^0 to see. I ought not to do it. 


May 24. 

We have met. I was going out with 
Miss Dowson, he was returning with his 
mother. He approached and saluted me, 
and hi? mother affectionately gave me 
her hand. 

“ I find you are a little changed,” said 
she. “ Have you been ill?” 

“ No, madame,” I replied. 

I told a falsehood, for the palpitations 
of my heart are stronger than ever -, but, 
I know not why, I was not willing to ac- 
knowledge in his presence that I was ill. 

We exchanged some words *and sepa- 
rated. She did not reproach me with no 
longer calling on her. While talking 
with Madame Gérard, I perceived that he 
was looking at me attentively. It seemed 
to me, when we separated, that he turned 
around to look. He is about the age my 
mother speaks of in her letter, — from 
thirty to thirty-five. 

IMay 25. 

I have passed a very bad night, and had 
the imprudence to tell it to my father, 
who immediately sent for his physician 
and friend, Paul Combes, in the second 
story. 

The doctor felt my pulse, ausculted 
my heart for a long time, asked several 
questions, and said, — 

“ No occasion for alarm. You need di- 
version and amusement.” We then spoke 
of various matters, and finally of music. 

“ By the way, do you know that we 
have an excellent musician in the house?” 
said Dr. Combes. 

“ AVho, pray?” asked my father. 


“ Your tenant at the end of the court. 
When my office windows are open I can 
hear him perfectly well, and he affords 
me a great deal of pleasure. AVithout 
being very distinguished on the piano, 
and without appearing to have studied 
very much, he plays with a soul. Have 
you never heard him, mademoiselle?” 

“ Yes, sir, as you have, from my win- 
dow.” 

Did I blush when I said that? It 
seemed to me that the doctor looked at 
me with astonishment. These physicians 
are very disagreeable. Instead of limit- 
ing themselves to feeling your pulse, they 
look you all over. 

“What!” exclaimed my father, “have 
I musicians in my house, and I am not 
aware of it? It will be necessary,” said 
he, smiling, “ to increase the rent of my 
tenants ; it is proper that they should pay 
something additional for the pleasure they 
enjoy. My dear doctor, please consider 
yourself notified.” 

“ My dear landlord,” replied Monsieur 
Combes, “ if you are going to raise my 
rent on account of music, I will go to 
Monsieur Gérard and request him to close 
his piano.” 

“ Are you particularly acquainted with 
him ? I have never had any but business 
relations with Madame Gérard, when she 
was installed in my house.” 

“ I have had occasion to see him several 
times,” replied the doctor, “ and he had 
the appearance of being a charming man, 
intelligent, educated, natural, and good. 
His manners are a little reserved. He 
abuses, perhaps, the right one has of not 
committing himself to strangers, and even 
to his physician -, but from beneath his 
cold exterior, whatever he does, peep out 
a beautiful soul and a lofty character.” 

'■'‘ Diable, diable I'' said my father, 
“ what a eulogy ! Do you know that is 
valuable, doctor, coming from you, who 
stand so high in public esteem?” 

It is a fact, and Miss Dowson has often 
told me so, that Monsieur Paul Combes 
enjoys a high reputation among his breth- 


86 


ARTICLE p. 


ren of the profession, and that he owes it 
as much to his honorable character as to 
his talent. I love him much. My father 
continued : 

“ How old, pray, can your patient be, in 
order to have a character so well formed 
and fixed as to deserve your admiration? 
I thought Monsieur Gérard very young.” 

“ He is not more than thirty-two, or 
thirty-five. But his life must have been 
one of agitation, and even of torment. 
He has been drilled, I am sure of it, in 
the best of schools, that of misfortune.” 

“ You know nothing in particular about 
his life?” 

“ I know what he has told me and what 
I could guess at. After living along time 
in America, he was, on his return to 
France, visited by a terrible, unforeseen 
event, the nature of which I do not know, 
but which has had certainly upon his 
char-acter and his whole life, down to the 
present time, a very great influence.” 

How right my father was in saying, a 
short time ago, that nothing escapes our 
doctor’s notice ! All the observations 
which I made, in regard to Monsieur Gé- 
rard, he has made also, and has drawn 
from them nearly the same conclusions. 
They have enabled him to pass this 
judgment. 

.The conversation ended here. But it 
seemed to me that Monsieur Combes, dur- 
ing this conversation, had continually his 
eyes fixed upon me. 

Did he wish to read also my life and 
heart ?. 

Perhaps he was looking at me only as 
a physician, and was more uneasy about 
my condition than he was willing to ap- 
pear. 

What led me to think so was, that after 
leaving the parlor, and instead of going 
up to his own room, he followed my father 
into his ofiice. 

****** 

May 30. 

I am suffering more than ever. The 
palpitations of my heart increase when 1 


sit doAvn to write. If I should be obliged 
to give up the pleasure I feel in confiding 

all my thoughts to this album 

Ah, do I record them all ? Yesterday I 
made a visit to the end of the court, and 
I have not related it. It is true that I 
was so fatigued on returning 

June 5. 

My father wishes by all means to pro- 
vide for me diversions and amusements. 
He proposed to me this morning to set out 
on a journey. I refused. It seems to me 
that motion is not good for me. I wish 
to stay in this house, which reminds me 

of my mother. I wish 

Ah, how I sufier I I can write no 
more. 

* ***** 
The journal of Mademoiselle Marcelle 
de Drives ending here, Ave shall complete 
it by the aid of the notes which have been 
communicated to us, and of the recitals 
that have been kindly ofiered. 


XZZYT. 

On the 22d of June of the same year, 
Monsieur De Drives, whose mind was very 
much exercised by the süôéring condition 
of his daughter, went up, about ten o’clock 
in the morning, to Dr. Combes’s room. 

“Doctor,” said he, “you saw Marcelle 
again yesterday, but eluded the questions 
I asked you on leaving her room. I ap- 
preciate your discretion, and thank you. 
But it is no longer the father of a family, 
whose grief you think it a duty to spare, 
that addresses you at this time. It is the 
friend, the client, who comes to talk with 
you in a serious manner and to ask you 
what you think of your patient.” 

Dr. Combes thought for a moment, and 
replied, — 

“ If you put the question in these terms, 
I think I ought to tell you the truth. Tlic 
malady which I thought I recognized in 


THE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG GIRL. 


87 


your daughter, the day on which you 
called me to her for the first time, has 
made, during the week, surprising, but 
not alarming, progress. I am seeking 
with great interest for the causes which 
may have determined divers symptoms 
which I notice in her case, in order not 
to be obliged to confess that I was mis- 
taken in denying, until now, the trans- 
mission of certain germs, the inheritance 
of certain diseases.” 

“How?” said Monsieur De Drives. 
“Do you think ” 

“ I simply think that Madame De Drives 
died of hypertrophy of the heart, and that 
palpitation and spitting of blood, although 
they do not absolutely indicate hypertro- 
phy, are sometimes the symptoms of it.” 

“Good God! can that be so?” said 
Monsieur De Drives. 

“ It is nothing which should seriously 
alarm you,” continued the doctor. “ The 
disease of which I speak, supposing Ma- 
demoiselle Marcelle is affected by it, and 
I by no means affirm it, may be easily 
combated. People live ten, twenty, thirty 
years with hypertrophy of a severe type ; 
great sorrows and violent emotions usually 
determine accidents, as hæmoptysis and 
rupture of the heart.” 

“Why, then, my daughter is saved! 
What sorrows do you suppose she can 
have, and what emotions could affect her ? 
I will devote myself to the rendering of 
her life easy and sweet.” 

The doctor looked steadily at Monsieur 
De Drives, and said, — 

“ You have done so up to this time?” 

“Without any doubt.” 

“Are you sure of it?” 

“ Why, doctor, these questions wound 
me. What makes you suppose that my 
daughter is not happy with me?” 

“ I suppose nothing. I am seeking for 
enlightenment. That is my right and 
my duty. I should not certainly deserve 
the reputation people are kind enough to 
give me, if, in the presence of a patient, 
I limited myself to pulse -feeling, and 
auscultation. In certain cases I try to 


study the patient as much in a moral as 
in a physical point of view ; and if I enjoy 
any pre-eminence, it is only in that. I 
have listened attentively to your daugh- 
ter’s heart, but I have especially endeav- 
ored to read it. And now I can assure 
you that she is suffering from an unknown 
disease, and that her pain is the more 
keen as she tries to hide it from every 
eye.” 

“ It is impossible, doctor ; I have never 
inflicted upon her a sorrow or a pain. 
Some weeks ago, one of my friends asked 
me for her hand. This marriage would 
have pleased me in some respects. I 
spoke to Marcelle about it; it did not 
please her, and I did not urge it.” 

“ What motive did she assign for refus- 
ing it?” 

“ None very serious.” 

“ She must have had one, at least.” 

“What one?”, 

“ Some young girlish love.” 

“No. Marcelle’ 8 life is passed between 
her governess and me. She makes no 
visits, and the only friend I have intro- 
duced to her was he whom she has re- 
fused.” 

“ And your tenant at the end of the 
court, that Monsieur Gérard of whom I 
spoke purposely the other day in the 
presence of Mademoiselle Marcelle?” 

“ She hears him, and sees him, but 
does not know him.” 

“ Has she not called several times on 
his mother?” 

“ I am thinking about that. She asked 
of me permission once to visit that lady, 
in order to interest her in her poor, and I 
consented. Dut I was not aware that an 
intimacy had been established between 
her and Madame Gérard.” 

“ Ah, you ought to know it, my friend ! 
Permit me to tell you, when one is the 
father of a grown-up young girl ” 

“ When this young girl has constantly 
with her a respectable, devoted woman, 
— a second mother, — the duties and re- 
sponsibilities of the father are much di- 
minished.” 


88 


ARTICLE Ifl. 


“ Be it so. I acquit you. It matters 
but little now. But as a physician, called 
to combat a disease of the heart, I feel it 
my duty to say that your daughter is in 
love with Monsieur Gérard.” 

That is not evident to me. I admit 
some visits to Madame Gérard, some 
meetings with her son, but that is not 
sufficient to ” 

“ Allow me to proceed. Consider the 
isolation of your daughter ; the real merit 
of Monsieur Gérard that I have spoken of ; 
his somewhat mysterious life, which does 
not resemble ours, and which may have 
struck the imagination of a young girl. 
Consider that, if Mademoiselle Marcelle, as 
I hope, has not inherited disease from her 
mother, she takes from her, nevertheless, 
certain germs of a tendency to sentiment- 
ality, to extravagant enthusiasm, and to 
every sort of exaggeration of which the 
mind is capable. Finally, my dear friend, 
who can say that the heart of your daugh- 
ter is not invincibly drawn towards Mon- 
sieur Gérard by powerful motives which 
we are not acquainted with and cannot 
divine ? Ah 1 we must foresee every- 
thing. We must, in a case so important 
as this, meet all possible suppositions. I 
have thought it my duty to talk to you 
with entire frankness, as a physician and 
friend.” 


xi-v. 

After this conversation, Monsieur De 
Brives went to Miss Dowson and endeav- 
ored to get some information from her. It 
was to undertake a difficult task. Miss 
Dowson would have made an excellent 
tragedy confidante. She had an admira- 
ble talent for listening to the longest 
tirades, and one might take his own time 
to tell her all he knew or wished to know 
and do. But when he stopped and gave 
her a chance to speak, she would encour- 
age him by a gesture or look to proceed. 


but obstinately persisted in making no 
reply. Monsieur De Brives succeeded 
only in extorting from her a few mono- 
syllables relative to the visits of Marcelle 
to Madame Gérard ; but they were suffi- 
cient to enable him to understand that 
the doctor’s suppositions were based upon 
a very exact point of departure. 

Monsieur De Brives wished then to 
have a conversation with his daughter. 
He rejoined her in her room, sat beside 
her, took her hands, and with a charm- 
ing, almost feminine, grace, with infinite 
delicacy, which some men can never lose, 
whatever may be their surroundings, he 
tried to obtain from her a confidence that 
might enlighten him. 

But Mademoiselle De Brives kept her 
secret. She dared not confess to herself 
that she loved George Gérard. How 
could she confess it to her father ? 

However, as the few monosyllables ex- 
torted from Miss Dowson had enlightened 
Monsieur De Brives on several points, 
so, certain blushes, certain excited 
phrases, which escaped from the patient, 
confirmed all the doctor’s sagacity. But 
might there not be some exaggeration ? 
Was Marcelle suffering from that love, un- 
acknowledged and suppressed, to such a 
degree as to be prejudicial to her health ? 

Miss Dowson knew nothing about it, or 
would say nothing about it. Marcelle 
could not be directly interrogated on the 
subject I and besides, could she answer ? 
One single person remained to be con- 
sulted to any advantage, and that was 
Madame Gérard. 

The situation was too grave for Mon- 
sieur De Brives to hesitate what to do. 
He must call on her. Did he not owe 
her a visit in order 40 thank her for her 
kindness to his daughter? and, as a land- 
lord, could he not find motives for solicit- 
ing this interview ? 

He was received very kindly by his 
tenant, and their long conversation, full 
of reticences and understoods, in which 
the greatest reserve was manifested on 
both sides, may be epitomized thus: 


THE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG GIRL. 


89 


Marcelle had been to see Madame Gé- 
rard on several occasions, and the latter, 
who found her very agreeable, had every 
time shown her great attention, without 
ever asking her to come again, and without 
returning any of her visits. As to George 
Gérard, he shared the opinion of his 
mother in respect to Mademoiselle De 
Drives, but had never shown it either by 
word or look. 

What is to be done?” said Monsieur 
De Drives to the doctor, on seeing him 
again after these different conversations 
which he had faithfully reported to him. 

“ Nothing at present,” replied the 
doctor: “wait. Dut I repeat it, your 
daughter is suffering the more because 
she is unwilling to confide her suffering 
to any one, and dares not even to do so 
to herself. It will be necessary, sooner 
or later, at all hazards, to obtain her con- 
fidence.” 

“ Dy what means, doctor ?” 

“ I will find them.” 

Some days elapsed, and the evil in- 
creased. 

One morning the doctor said to Monsieur 
De Drives, — 

“ I have found the means we were look- 
ing for; but it is painful to use them. 
A mother, doubtless, would have no scru- 
ples in this regard ; a father may and 
ought to have. Were you aware that 
your daughter wrote down day by day 
her impressions ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Well, on entering her room this 
morning with Miss Dowson, I noticed a 
sort of album on a piece of furniture. It 
was open at the first page, and I read on 
it these words : ‘ My life since I left the 
convent.’ The confidence, or secrets which 
are refused you, and which are indispen- 
sable to you, will be found in that album 
or journal.” 

“And you wish If the question 

were about your own daughter, what 
would you do?” 

“ I would read it.” 

“ That is sufficient.” 


During the day Monsieur De Drives 
induced Marcelle to take a ride with Miss 
Dowson. He profited by this absence ; 
entered his daughter’s room, opened the 
little secretary which he had given her, 
and went rapidly through the journal 
which we have published. 

After this reading, doubt was no longer 
possible. The love of Mademoiselle De 
Drives for George Gérard shone out on 
every page, although she nowhere openly 
avowed it. This love was so much the 
more serious, as it was founded in some 
measure upon a superstition. Marcelle, 
excited by illness, firmly believed she was 
obeying the last wishes of her mother. 
She imagined she was fulfilling a duty by 
abandoning herself to the aspirations of 
her heart. She loved the more ardently, 
as she found in her passion a sort of satis- 
faction to her filial piety. Dut she had at 
the same time a consciousness of the too 
great suddenness of this love. All the 
bashfulness and modesty of a young girl 
were awakened at the idea that people 
might criticise her and accuse her of fickle- 
ness or imprudence. Unwilling to avow 
to any one what feelings and thoughts she 
obeyed, and wdthout the power to define 
them, she remained silent and suffered in 
silence, without strength to speak or 
power to act. 

Monsieur De Drives, after replacing the 
album where he had found it, shut him- 
self up in his office and reflected for a long 
time. 

The letter of Madame De Drives had 
made upon him a lively impression. The 
troubles he had brought upon her had 
shortened her life. If he had known how 
to procure for her a calm and quiet life, she 
would not have succumbed to the malady 
by which she was attacked. Did not 
Doctor Combes say that people mjght live 
ten, twenty, thirty years with hypertrophy 
of the heart? And Marcelle was suffer- 
ing perhaps with the same disease. Mar- 
celle might be taken away from him, as 
her mother had been, by a succession of 
moral sufferings. No, he would save her 


90 


ARTICLE 


at any cost I He would save her in spite 
of herself I If she refused to acknowledge 
her love, he would do it for her. She 
dared no more to go to George Gérard’ s 
house, and was dying because she saw 
him no more. He would take her to his 
house, if necessary. Above all, he wanted 
her to live. Ah, at this moment he was 
no longer a gambler, he had become a 
father again ! 

Soon his course was decided upon. He 
wrote a word to Monsieur Gérard, re- 
questing an interview. His tenant re- 
plied that he was at home, and awaited 
his pleasure. 

Monsieur De Drives took his hat and 
crossed the court. He was going frankly, 
like an honest man, to talk with another 
honest man. Had not his mind been for a 
long time made up in regard to George 
Gérard ? Had not Doctor Combes, an ex- 
pert in such matters, become responsible 
for his honorable character? And did 
not the discreet behavior of this young 
man towards Marcelle confirm, to a de- 
monstration, his perfect uprightness? 

George Gérard listened to Monsieur De 
Drives in silence, and in a sort of abstrac- 
tion, or mental absence ; then in his turn 
began, and said, — 

‘‘ If I have understood you, sir, you ask 
me to use my influence with my mother 
to induce her to go and spend a few mo- 
ments with Mademoiselle De Drives ; and 
you wish that I should return your visit 
to me as soon as possible 5 finally, you 
desire to see us, myself and mother, de- 
part from our usual reserve. Well, sir, 
we cannot do it. All you have been kind 
enough to say to me honors me infinitely, 
and touches me to the bottom of my heart ; 
but your frankness calls for mine in re- 
turn. I cannot call at your house, just 
because of the motive which I think I un- 
derstand, and which makes you desire to 
see me. My visits would strengthen cer- 
tain ideas, which all your efforts should 
tend, on the contrary, to banish and com- 
bat, when I shall have told you these 
simple words: my place is not at the 


house of a young marriageable woman, 
for I shall never marry.” 

The surprise of Monsieur De Drives on 
hearing George Gérard express himself in 
this way was extreme. What had em- 
barrassed him in the step he had just 
taken was the step itself. It was one of 
the most delicate, and required great tact. 
Dut the idea had not occurred to him for 
a single moment to say to himself that 
he might not succeed, that he would en- 
counter an invincible obstacle ; that he 
should find a man foolish enough to re- 
fuse the love of a young girl of nineteen, 
rich, well educated, extremely beautiful, 
and charming in all respects. This man 
existed, nevertheless. And Monsieur De 
Drives, whose persistence, delicate as it was 
in such a case, was authorized and legiti- 
mated in a certain degree by the gravity 
of the circumstances and the object which 
he had proposed to himself to attain, was 
not able to triumph over the resistance 
opposed to him. 

He was obliged even to give up all new 
attempts, for George Gérard set out on a 
journey the very night which followed 
his conversation with Monsieur De Drives. 
One might have said that he wished to 
put a greater distance between himsell 
and Marcelle. 


XIATI. 

In the month of July the condition of 
Marcelle gave serious alarm to Doctor 
Combes, and he thought it his duty to 
speak with her father about it. 

For some time nothing could induce 
her to leave her room. She would remain 
whole days with her eyes fixed, with her 
hands resting on her heart to repress pal- 
pitation, and mouth open to breathe more 
freely. Like Miss Dowson, she replied 
only in monosyllables to the questions 
addressed to her, and seemed to ask it as 


TEE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG GIRL. 


91 


a favor that they would not disturb her 
solitude and divert her from her thoughts. 

“ If we do not succeed in withdrawing 
her from the prostration in which she 
now is,” said the doctor, “ I can no longer 
be responsible for her.” 

And what can be done?” asked Mon- 
sieur De Drives, in an excited tone of voice. 

“ Has Monsieur Gérard returned from 
his journey?” 

“No*, and besides, what if he has? 
Have I not repeated to you his words? 
What hope can we rest on him?” 

“ He alone, however, can save her,” 
said the doctor. After a little reflection, 
he added, “Will you authorize me to 
make one last efibrt with his mother, and 
tell her what I think will be beneflcial to 
our cause?” 

“ Proceed as you may think proper, 
doctor. All social proprieties must give 
way before the calamity which threatens 
us.” 

****** 

“ Madame,” said the doctor to Madame 
Gérard, after some preliminary phrases, “ I 
am perfectly of the opinion that marriage 
is too serious a thing for one to think of 
it with the view of obliging some one. It 
would be a very unwelcome undertaking 
on my part, to speak to you of the con- 
dition of my patient and attempt to inter- 
est you and your son in it. You have 
your reasons for repelling the advances 
which, in spite of all received usages, we 
have thought it a duty to make, and we 
respect those reasons, without even seek- 
ing to know what they are. So I do not 
come to speak to you about marriage: 
our hopes do not extend so far ; and, be- 
sides, it is none of my business. I am 
here simply in the capacity of a physician, 
madame, and say to you, I believe that 
Mademoiselle De Drives would have great 
pleasure in seeing you and your son, and 
that this visit would aflbrd a happy diver- 
sion to the state of prostration in which 
she now is, and a good influence upon 
her health. The matter being thus stated, 
all your scruples ought to disappear. It 


is not on a young marriageable girl that 
you will call, but a patient, at the request 
of her physician.” 

“ It would be very uncivil in me to re- 
fuse what you ask, doctor,” said Madame 
Gérard, with great emotion. “ I will call 
on Mademoiselle De Drives. To-morrow 
my son, to whom I shall send a dispatch, 
will have returned to Paris, and • will 
accompany me.” And when the doctor 
thanked her, she said, with tears in her 
eyes,— 

“ Tell Monsieur De Drives the interest 
we feel in his troubles. Tell him we 
would have given everything in the world 
to have prevented them. Dut that did 
not depend upon us ; we do not belong to 
ourselves ; we are undergoing ” 

She suddenly stopped, frightened as if 
she had said too much, and accompanied 
the doctor to the door. 


XLYTZI. 

The same evening, Monsieur De Drives 
said to his daughter, with an aflected tone 
of indiflerence, — 

“Do you know that I am going to be 
under an obligation not to increase the 
rent of my tenants?” 

“ Why?” asked she. 

“ They have been giving me on all sides, 
since you have been ill, such evidence of 
sympathy, that I must in some way give 
proof of my gratitude.” 

“Do they think of me? You astonish 
me,” said she, with some bitterness. 

“ In the first place, you will not com- 
plain of Dr. Combes, I suppose.” 

“ Oh, that man ! he is not a tenant, he 
is a friend.” 

“ And the gentleman who lives in the 
third story, he is a real tenant. For five 
years we have known nothing of him, 
except when his rent is due. Dut now, 
every morning, he asks the porter how 


92 


ARTICLE 47. 


you have passed the night.” She said 
nothing, and he continued, — 

“ I am very highly pleased also with 
the persons who live in the building sep- 
arated from ours. You remember the 
little isolated pavilion at the end of the 
court ?” 

“ Yes,” replied she, and her eyes bright- 
ened. 

“ It is occupied,” said her father, “ by 
a lady who lives with her son. Well, not 
a day passes but she comes to inquire 
after your health.” 

“ Why is she not admitted ?” asked she, 
rising up. 

“ Doctor Combes had forbidden it. But 
to-day, finding your condition more satis- 
factory, he has countermanded the order.” 

“ It would be well, then, to send word 
to Madame Gérard that I am at home for 
Aer.” 

“ It is useless. She will call again to- 
morrow at her usual hour.” 

“ At what o’clock?” 

“ About two. And she solicits one 
favor, which I don’t feel exactly inclined 
to grant.” 

“What favor?” 

“ It appears that her son has just made 
a long journey abroad, in Germany, I 
believe; and that in that country, where 
charity 'is understood in an intelligent 
manner, he has collected different notes 
which may be useful to you in the project 
you formerly spoke to me about. He 
would like to submit them to you. Per- 
haps you are a little too feeble to listen 
to him. What do you think about it?” 

“ The moment the subject of the poor 
comes up,” said she, with an air of resig- 
nation, “ I ought to make an effort.” 

“ Then you will receive Monsieur Gé- 
rard with his mother ?” 

“ If you are willing.” 

“Oh, I have not had any will for a 
long time. I obey faculty , and agree 
to whatever Doctor Combes recommends.” 


The next morning the doctor was en- 
abled to verify a sensible improvement in 
the condition of his patient. The pal- 
pitations were as frequent as on pre- 
ceding days, and even more so, but all 
prostration had disappeared. Made- 
moiselle De Drives answered the ques- 
tions put to her; and at* times asked 
some. Twice during the doctor’s visit 
she looked in the mirror and murmured 
out, “ Heavens, how I have changed !” 

At two o’clock in the afternoon Mad- 
ame Gérard and son were announced. 
Miss Dowson and Monsieur De Drives 
were in Marcelle’ s room. During this 
visit, which lasted more than an hour, 
the patient talked about everything 
with an animation a little feverish, but 
by far preferable to her habitual dejec- 
tion. She seemed to be taking a new 
hold of life, and new horizons opened 
before her. Discouragement had vanished 
as by enchantment, and hope returned. 

She said to the doctor, who came to see 
her in the evening, — 

“ Doctor, give me your remedies and I 
will take them all. I am tired of suffer- 
ing and wish to be well.” 

****** 
Madame Gérard and son did not limit 
themselves to this visit. At the request 
of the doctor they renewed it frequently. 

“ Give me time to subdue the disease,” 
said he to them. “ Let her health be en- 
tirely restored. I ask of you six weeks 
at most. Then your visits may be less 
and less frequent, and you shall resume 
your entire liberty.” 

Madame Gérard and son complied very 
nobly with the doctor’s request. Instead 
of granting the six weeks he requested, 
they gave him two months, then three. 

Mademoiselle De Drives was now per- 
fectly well. Her palpitations had dis- 
appeared, and her color had returned. 
She walked out every day with her father, 
lived like everybody else, and, strange to 
say, the visits continued. They did not 


THE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG GIRL, 


93 


seem inclined to profit by the liberty the 
doctor had given them. 

What was passing in the minds of 
Madame Gérard and son? Had they 
entirely departed from their reserve ? 
Had their ideas been modified? Had 
that resolution never to marry, which 
George Gérard had so distinctly mani- 
fested, vanished ? 

We will reply to these questions by 
relating here a conversation which took 
place, about the period we have now 

reached, in the office of Monsieur X , 

an ancient chief of the order of advocates 
of the Imperial Court of Rouen, and for 
the last two years living in retirement in 
Paris, St. Anne Street. 


* XIIXl- 

It was about four o’clock in the after- 
noon, when his servant came to inform 
him that a lady wished to speak with 
him. She refused to give her name, but 
said she was very well known to him. 

“ Did you tell her,” asked Monsieur 
X , “ that I no longer gave any con- 

sultations ?” 

“Yes; but this lady does not call as a 
client : she formerly knew you at Rouen, 
and desires to see you.” 

“ Show her in.” 

Monsieur X went to meet the 

visitor, and ofiered her a chair ; and as he 
seemed to be trying in vain to recollect 
her features, she said, “You will not 
recognize me, sir ; nobody does. In eight 
years I have grown thirty years older. 
I am now an old woman, and my hair is 
quite white.” 

“ You have preserved, madame,” said 
the old lawyer, gallantly, “a smîle which 
formerly attracted my notice, and which 
I cannot forget. If I do not remember 
exactly who you are, you must excuse 
me ; I have seen so many people in my 
long career. But I remember perfectly 


that I have known you, and on a serious 
occasion, if I am not mistaken.” 

“Very serious indeed, sir; I came to 
ask you to defend, before the assizes of 
the Seine-Inférieure, my son, my only 
child, accused of attempted assassination 
and robbery.” 

He rose quickly, took her hand, and 
said, with emotion, — 

“You are Madame Du Hamel 1” 

“For you, I am,” said she. “ To an- 
other I should deny having been ever so 
called.” 

After contemplating for a moment the 
much-changed features of Madame Du 
Hamel, the old advocate exclaimed, 
warmly, — ^ 

“ Ah, unhappy woman ! unhappy 
mother ! how often I have pitied you ! 
Yes, I remember you ! Now that I no 
longer plead, now that I can live a little 
in the past, I sometimes read over the 
old lawsuits in which I have figured. 
That of your son recently fell under my 
eyes. I saw again the court of assizes, 
the jury, the judges, the attorney-general ; 
I saw you sitting some steps from that 
miserable creature, the cause of all your 
unhappiness. I heard still that heart- 
piercing shriek, which you uttered when 
that unjust condemnation was pro- 
nounced. Yes, unjust, I still think, and 
always shall. My client ought to have 
been acquitted. He would have been, 
had it not been for that accusation of 
robbery, which threw a false light upon 
the case. Five years of hard labor for a 
moment of rashness ! for it was nothing 
else. I said so. I said it after the trial ; 
I repeated it a thousand times, and repeat 
it still. Poor young man ! so interesting, 
so charming ! How he loved you ! 
Never did a client inspire me with so 
much sympathy,. I wept, as you know, 
because I could not save him. Ah ! 
beneath the lawyer’s gown there is more 
heart than people generally think. The 
public says to itself : ‘ He is eloquent in 
order to convince the jury; he weeps to 
excite sympathy. He is not really 


94 


ARTICLE lf.7. 


affected himself, his tears are feigned.’ 
Ah, how often the public is mistaken, 
and how often it has happened to us all 
during the assizes to shed real tears ! 
But tell me, he has not suffered his con- 
demnation, I imagine. You have ob- 
tained his pardon, or at least a commuta- 
tion of penalty ?” 

“ No,” said she, sadly. 

“ It has been refused you ? Why did 
you not apply to me ? I have friends in 
the administration of justice. I would 
have taken you to them, and all their 
kindness would have been used in your 
behalf.” 

“ I had thought, my dear sir, of apply- 
ing. to you, but my ^n begged me not to 
do so. He wished to suffer punishment 
to the full extent. ‘ I wish,’ said he, ‘ to 
be square with society, which I have 
offended by yielding to a hasty passion. 
Society has condemned me to five years 
of hard labor, and I will serve out the 
sentence. After that I shall be square 
with her ; no one shall have a right to re- 
proach me with my fault, and I shall be 
able to hold my head up.’ ” 

“ Another illusion of youth,” said the 
advocate. “ Your son must have re- 
covered from his error by this time. One 
is never square with society when he has 
had the misfortune to incur certain con- 
demnations. Alongside of legal penalties, 
so to speak, there are penalties called ac- 
cessory, against which many enlightened 
•jurists have protested in vain down to 
the present time.” 

He opened the Code which he, from 
habit, always had at hand, and read : 

“ Article 47 of the Code Penal : 

“ Persons condemned to hard labor . . . 
shall be, after they have served out their 
time, and during their whole life, under 
the surveillance of the high police.” 

“ My son,” said Madame Du Hamel, 
“ escaped that surveillance.” 

“ How did he manage ?” exclaimed the 
advocate. “ I do not understand it.” 

“ At the moment of being set at liberty, 
a place of residence was appointed for him. 


and which he must never leave, under 
penalty ^ ” 

‘‘ Under penalty,” continued Monsieur 

X “ of disobeying that other article of 

the same code, which declares that every 
infringement of the regulations touching 
the individuals under the surveillance of 
the high police shall be punished by the 
court of correction, by a penalty which, if 
the judge thinks proper, may extend to 
five years of imprisonment.” 

“We are acquainted with that article,” 
said Madame Du Hamel. “ And yet my 
son,” she added, in a trembling voice, 
“ burnt up the directions which had been 
given him as to the course he should take 
on being set at liberty, changed his name, 
that all traces of him might be lost, and 
came to settle down with me in Paris.” 

“ In Paris, where both of you have 
lived a long time!” exclaimed Monsieur 

X 5 “ and you were not afraid of being 

known ?” 

“Who could have recognized us, sir? 
Before spending five years at Toulon, 
George had lived, you know, for a long 
time in America. He left Paris at 
twenty years of age, and returned to it at 
thirty. This was a period of ten years, 
during which the visage undergoes a sort 
of transformation ; the features are formed 
and developed. He was a youth, almost 
a child ; he becomes a man. Then the 
terrible emotions he has experienced : his 
two last years in America near that 
adored, detestable woman ; his trial, his 
condemnation, his five years at Toulon, 
five years of incessant and terrible physi- 
cal and moral suffering*, the want of 
sleep, the bad food, the hardest of labors 
in the arsenal and in the port ; in the 
winter exposed to the mistral, or cold 
northwest wind *, in the summer, under 
an implacable sun, with a jacket and 
woolen pants for dress, with a skull-cap 
on his head, and chains about his ankles. 
No fire, no shade, no covering to protect 
him from the cold of night, no straw to 
rest his fatigued body upon ! Ah, sir ! 
such griefs, such privations, such suffer- 


THE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG GIRL. 


95 


ings change a man, I can assure you, and 
give to his physiognomy quite another 
character, and render him unrecogniza- 
ble. On two or three occasions, though he 
goes out but seldom, he has found himself 
in the presence of some old college or 
school companion, to whom his features 
recalled no remembrance of his person- 
ality.” 

“ But, madame, did you not formerly 
have both friends and acquaintances in 
Paris?” 

“ No. Since the departure of my hus- 
band for America, now nearly twenty 
years ago, I had retired from the world. 
I lived alone with my son in a corner 
of the suburb St. Germain, far, very 
far from the quarter in which I now 
live. The few persons I used to see then 
are either not living, or have left Paris. 
Why, sir, you yourself did not recognize 
me just now ! And yet, only eight years 
ago, during the three months that George’s 
trial was being prepared, I used to see 
you every day, and you had long conver- 
sations with me. Ah, it is because I am 
very much changed also 1 I have suffered 
much! I have shared all his sufferings. 
I may say that there were two of us 
undergoing this condemnation.” 

Silent and seated at her side. Monsieur 
X waited for her to go on. 

Yes,” said she, “ I went and took up 
my abode at Toulon, on the wharf, and 
near the arsenal. From my window I 
could sometimes see him at work in the 
port, or pass in a boat with his com- 
panions in chains, under the direction of 
a keeper. Ah, sir, what a painful spec- 
tacle for a mother’s heart ! I do not be- 
lieve there is any torment comparable to 
that! How I endured it I cannot tell. 
But could I leave him ? Ought I not to 
sustain his courage by my presence, and 
help him to keep the oath I had extorted 
from him not to commit suicide? He 
knew where I lived. From certain parts 
of the arsenal it was possible for him to 
get a glimpse of my window. He did 
not distinguish my features, but he could 


perceive a shadow in the distance, 
through space, and continued working 
and suffering, with his eyes directed to 
that shadow.” 


xix:. 

Tears fell from her eyes as she thus 
spoke, and the old advocate, though ex- 
perienced in all sorts of emotions, evinced 
signs of unusual feeling. 

They both remained silent for a mo- 
ment, when he said to her, affection- 
ately,— 

“ You are now reunited. Are you 
happy ?” 

“ We were,” replied she, drying her 
tears ; “ we were living together quietly, 
in perfect solitude, far from the indiscreet 
and curious, more concealed and unknown 
in Paris than we should ever have been 
in a provincial town ; we were congratu- 
lating ourselves on the course we had 
adopted, when Ah, sir, give me ad- 

vice ! I have no one of whom I can ask 
it, and have thought of you, to whom I 
am under so many obligations, whose dis- 
cretion I well know ; on you who have 
pitied me, who have loved us, and whom 
we also love in return.” 

She gave him a detailed account of 
the events that had occurred in the life 
of her son for the last six months. 

He was desperately loved, and he loved 
in return. Yes, he was in love ! What 
more natural? Does not love attract 
love ? He loved with the ardor of a heart 
still young, which had not beaten for 
eight years ; which an injudicious pas- 
sion had formerly controlled, but which 
had recently allowed itself to be touched 
by seductions new to him, and unknown 
until this day, namely, goodness, charms, 
grace, distinction, and innocent ingenu- 
ousness. 

George had a long time resisted this 


96 


ARTICLE Iff. 


love. He had fought against it, had ab- 
sented himself, but now confessed he was 
conquered. 

What was to be done ? Should he now 
flee again ? 

But his future, his happiness, was at 
stake. After suflering so much, did he 
not deserve to be happy? The question 
perhaps also was one of life ; at all events, 
that of her whom he loved. 

The question was, whether he should 
accept the hand that was ofiered him, and 
be married ! 

Could he do it? To disclose his past 
life was an impassable barrier between 
him and her. But if he should not dis- 
close it, and the time should come when 
it would be known 1 

This situation was for a long time ex- 
plicitly discussed by Madame Du Hamel, 
when she ceased, and waited for Monsieur 

X to be kind enough to give her his 

advice. The lawyer’s answer was not 
long waited for. 

“Before all things,” said he, “before 
discussing the marriage of your son in a 
moral point of view, ought we not to ex- 
amine the practical side of the question ? 
In order to be married, papers and facts 
are necessary. Where are yourS? The 
record of your son’s birth, your marriage 
contract, and the fact of the decease of 
your husband, will inform everybody 
that your name is Du Hamel, and you 
tell me that you have, for prudential rea- 
sons, changed your name. It is doubt- 
less to this precaution that you owe the 
tranquillity which you enjoy. Are you 
going to disturb it, attract public atten- 
tion, and revive remembrances almost 
effaced? How shall we explain to the 
family with which you wish to be con- 
nected, that after being called for so long 
a time by another name, we are all at 
once called Du Hamel, in the church and 
elsewhere^” 

She had listened without interrupting 
him ; and when he had ceased speaking, 
she replied, — 

“We shall not be obliged to resume 


the name of Du Hamel. That which we 
now bear, and which I took after the con- 
demnation of my son, is the only one 
which legally belongs to us. My hus- 
band, at the time he was spending in 
Paris a very considerable fortune, which 
he afterwards repaired in America, lived 
in an elegant, vain, and titled circle, in 
which his plebeian name did not sound 
well enough ; so he thought he would 
add to it that of Du Hamel, which he 
found in an old family parchment. Gradu- 
ally, as it often happens, the first name 
disappeared, and there remained only 
the second, which he made me acquire 
the habit of bearing, and which was 
afterwards borne by my son. But I re- 
peat it, it does not belong to us ; not the 
least trace of it is to be found in our 
papers, and we hastened to quit it and 
return to our veritable name, which, for- 
tunately, has for a long time been for- 
gotten.” 

“ Then,” said Monsieur X , “ the 

material obstacle disappears. Let us ex- 
amine the question in a moral point of 
view. On the one hand is a serious, 
threatening, certain danger, the happi- 
ness of the two persons in the case, their 
compromised existence, or at least the ex- 
istence of one of them. On the other 
hand, there are eventual perils, improb- 
able indeed, if certain precautions are 
taken, and especially if it is considered 
that, for three years, no disquieting cir- 
cumstance has presented itself, and that 
life has been passed in perfect tran- 
quillity.” 

They conversed thus for a long time. 

When they separated, Monsieur X 

said to Madame Du Hamel, at the 
same time cordially pressing her offered 
hand, — 

“ I thank you for having come to see 
me. This proof of confidence, given me 
by one of the most respectable women of 
my acquaintance, has been to me exceed- 
ingly touching. Tell your son that I 
have never ceased to esteem him, and 
that the greatest sorrow of my life is, 


THE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG GIRL. 


97 


that I was not able to gain his case. 
Press his hand for me, and wish him, in 
my place, all the happiness which he 
truly deserves.” 

****** 
On the first of October, of the same 


year, the marriage of Monsieur George 
Gérard with Mademoiselle Marcelle de 
Brives was celebrated at the mayor’s 
office, then in the church, in the presence 
of a small number of friends. After the 
ceremony the happy couple set out for 
Italy. 


7 



$ 


PART IIL-THE HIGH POLICE. 


X. 

The question whether the present gov- 
ernment has acted wisely in maintaining 
the law which suppresses public gam- 
bling-houses upon French territory, has 
been several times raised during the last 
few years. 

By the aid of arguments of a certain 
value, the so-called literary press has at- 
tempted to show that morality had gained 
nothing by this suppression ; but that, on 
the contrary, it had lost by it, and that 
gambling-houses ought to be not only 
tolerated, but authorized, patronized, and 
put in the number of establishments of 
public utility. 

The serious, or religious, journals have 
persistently exclaimed against this pre- 
tension, and eloquently sustained a 
position diametrically the opposite of that 
of their confrères. Of course, neither of 
the two parties has succeeded in convinc- 
ing the other, and the public does not yet 
know to which opinion it should give the 
preference. 

We do not intend to take sides in this 
discussion, except so far as to state that, 
since the attempt to suppress gambling- 
houses, the passion for gambling has been 
developed in France in a fearful manner. 
Gambling is practiced in every class of 
society, and in every hole and corner of 
Paris. The law is in some way or other 
always evaded, and the police is power- 
less to prevent it. 

****** 

We appeal, for confirmation of our 
statement, to the tenant of the little hotel 
98 


in Neuilly Avenue, well known to the 
élite of Paris. 

When she came to settle among us, she 
was about twenty-five years of age, with 
sixty thousand francs in her pocket-book, 
and an indemnity of thirty thousand 
which she could realize in a short time, 
together with a devoted friend, young 
enough to have no doubt about anything, 
a sort of provincial sheathed with Paris- 
ian, intelligent, and understanding busi- 
ness as one understands it in our large 
commercial cities, and enjoying that pre- 
cocious experience peculiar to persons 
who frequent the Bois de Boulogne, the 
Champs-Elysées, the Boulevard de la 
Madeleine, etc. And this is the conver- 
sation which the woman in question had 
with her friend, very near the time when 
the first part of this story ended, which 
had for its title. Une Fille de Couleur^ or 
“ The Girl of Color 

“Well, what is to be done now? I 
must give up all my long-cherished plans, 
that existence that I thought so beautiful, 
those feasts, that luxury, that reputation 
of a fashionable woman, and say that it 
has sufficed. Ah, the wretch 1” 

“Yes, yes,” replied her interlocutor, 
in a light and almost ironical tone, flour- 
ishing in the air a stick he had always in 
his hand, “ he is a miserable man, I con- 
fess it for the thousandth time. But you 
are avenged, rather cruelly too. If he 
has done you an injury, you have done 
him a greater one.” 

“Indeed!” exclaimed she with trans- 
port, “ do you think so? I was born for 
a noisy and animated existence, in broad 
daylight; and here I am, condemned to 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


99 


live in silence, solitude, and shade! I 
was splendidly beautiful, — yes, splendidly 
beautiful, that is the word ; everybody 
used it in speaking of me, — you, the very 
first, and I am become hideous. When I 
used to pass along the street, when I ap- 
peared in a public place, people stopped 
to look at me, and made a circle around 
me. A long murmur of admiration came 
from the crowd, and fell upon my de- 
lighted ear. But now, when they see me, 
they turn away their heads and avoid me. 
I read pity and disgust in every eye. 
Your friends, whom you had formerly in- 
troduced to me, have all abandoned me. 
You alone have the courage to look me 
in the face.” 

“ In the first place, I have all sorts of 
courage. My friends are fools, imbeciles. 
Your face lacks something desirable, I 
confess. It has lost a little of its charm ; 
but pretty faces are to be met with by the 
hundreds. What, however, one does not 
find is a figure like yours, shoulders of a 
perfect model, a bust Ah, what opu- 

lence ! Hands and feet of a child ! Has 
not the Venus of Milo passionate admir- 
ers, although she is incomplete? For we, 
you are a Venus, minus the head.” 

It was in this style that Victor Mazilier 
used to flatter Cora. (Our readers have 
already become acquainted with these 
two personages in our first part.) It was 
thus that he gained a great influence over 
this woman of color, who was vain like 
all of her race. George du Hamel, in 
adoring her when she was beautiful, had 
only paid to her the tribute that was due. 
His admiration had not flattered her, and 
she remained mistress of herself, — that is 
to say, arrogant, cold and cruel at times. 

Victor Mazilier, on the contrary, by 
praising her beauty when she complained 
of her ugliness, by discovering to her 
charms which he seemed to prefer to 
those which she had lost, 'made her satis- 
fied in some measure with herself, gave 
her confidence in her worth, revived hope 
in that desperate heart, and, from a motive 


we shall hereafter learn, rendered her in- 
dispensable to himself. 

But the compliments of Victor Mazilier 
had not appeased Cora’s wrath. The blow 
she had received was still too recent to 
allow her to preserve her sang-froid when 
she called up certain reminiscences. 

“ Ah, you think me sufficiently 
avenged,” said she, “ because he has 
been condemned to five years of hard 
labor. Five years ! Why, he will come 
out of his prison young, elegant and 
charming, as he was when I loved him ! — 
for I did love him, the monster ! I loved 
him when I looked at him I Yes, at that 
time I worshiped form, /was beautiful, 
and it was rendering homage to my own 
beauty to admire that of others. But now 
I make less account of physical qualities *, 
you know something about that, my dear 
Mazilier.” 

“I am not very loveable,” said he, 
without seeming to be hurt ; but he added 
mentally, “you shall pay for that.” 

She continued, — 

“ He has been condemned to five years 
of hard labor ; and 7, through him, to a 
punishment for life ! He will leave the 
galleys and enjoy life, while I shall re- 
main always ugly and hideous ! Form- 
erly State prisoners were branded on the 
shoulder. Now it is their victims who 
carry eternally on their visage the mark 
of their blows. Ah, you think my ven- 
geance is satisfied. Well, if I find him 
again some day, you will see !” 

“Very well, I shall see,” said Victor 
Mazilier, calmly ; “ but in the meantime 
these complaints are useless. Let us 
think rather of what is going to become 
of you. You are not willing to return to 
Havre, I understand that ; and you wrote 
to me to meet you in Rouen, and here I 
am. Do you intend to locate yourself in 
this city? I can assure you that you 
would soon get mortally tired of it.” 

“No matter,” said she, “I no longer 
hope to enjoy myself much in this world. 
But I will not stay in Rouen. Half of 


100 


ARTICLE Jf!. 


its inhabitants have seen me in public 
places, and they point me out when I go 
into the street. Ah, that shows that I am 
known 1” 

“Do you think of returning to New 
Orleans?” 

“ Never !” said she, emphatically. “Do 
you think of such a thing? Keturn dis- 
figured to a place where I was known as 
so charming, where I passed for the most 
beautiful ! Ah, the Creole women would 
be but too happy to see me come back in 
this condition !” 

“ Then there is Paris, where you thought 
of going at first. Paris, where one is very 
easily concealed, how little soever he may 
desire it, where nothing astonishes, and 
where people are too much occupied in 
looking at beautiful women to ” 

“ To turn and gaze upon the disfigured 
or ugly, you mean,” said she. “ Pray, 
go on, dear friend, don’t feel embarrassed. 
You know that I use no self-deception in 
this matter. Done ! I will go to Paris, and 
then what? What quarter shall I live 
in ? Where shall I be best concealed ? I 
wait for your advice.” 

“ In the first place,” replied Victor 
Mazilier after a little reflection, faithful to 
his system, or perhaps convinced of what 
he said, “ I assure you that you exagge- 
rate your physical defects. The pistol-ball 
of George du Hamel has passed through 
your upper lip, plowed the cheek, and 
deformed the lower part of your face, I 
acknowledge. But your eyes have re- 
mained the handsomest in the world, your 
forehead is that of a sovereign, and your 
hair the blackest I ever saw. In short, 
you have beautiful remains, which many 
women would envy. In broad daylight 
the scars appear deep, and the wounds 
still gaping. They attract the eye and 
divert attention from the charms you have 
preserved. But in the evening, in partial 
darkness, thanks to the effects of light 
which you will study and know how to 
turn to advantage, your eyes will shine 
with all their brilliancy, your hair will 
have a peculiar effect, your forehead will 


be resplendent, and the upper portion of 
your visage will have such charms that 
people will not think of looking any 
lower.” 

“ You are a flatterer,” said she, affect- 
edly. 

“ Why, no, no ! I tell the truth. But 
for fear of repeating myself, I do not 
speak of the dazzling effect produced by 
your shoulders and bust, when you dress 
boldly, i ^cording to the fashion. When 
some scientific milliner sets out the ele- 
gance of your figure, and the rest ! — ^yes, 
yes, you are a belle by night.” 

She listened to him with eagerness, 
and grgfdually allowed herself to be con- 
vinced. 

He continued : 

“I have thought a good deal about 
your position, and know perfectly well 
what will be proper for you. You must 
now avoid the multitude, the fashionable 
world, and all noisy pleasures. You will 
need a circle of friends and private amuse- 
ments. The first impression of those who 
shall be introduced to you will not be 
favorable, I know. But after this, they 
will, little by little, become accustomed 
to your — little disagreeablenesses. Soon 
even they will forget them, and no longer 
see anything but your perfections of every 
kind. But you must never receive any 
women into your private circle. Let your 
door be absolutely closed against them. 
You might be perfectly plain, or ugly, 
and they would perhaps show you indul- 
gence ; but your incontestable beauties 
would excite their jealousy. They would 
not pardon them. They would get re- 
venge for what remains to you, by calling 
attention to what is wanting. Be severe 
also in regard to artists of all kinds, espe- 
cially men of letters. They are danger- 
ous people in a drawing-room. In order 
to appear talented or witty, they will 
rend and tear you in pieces. That they 
may deserve a reputation for originality, 
they will tell you to your face many un- 
pleasant truths. To give a proof of inde- 
! pendence, they will break your windows. 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


101 


Your familiar friends must be men of the 
world, and of the best. They only con- 
ceal their thoughts and their bad impres- 
sions. They look upon a woman only to 
admire her, and speak to her only to com- 
pliment her. In the company of such 
you will always believ.e you are charm- 
ing, and forget your — ennui, and ” 

She interrupted him to say : 

“ Where shall I find those familiar 
friends? I have read in New Orleans, in 
one of your books published in France, 
that it was necessary, in our days, to 
give up forming what was formerly called 
a salon. Fashionable people dine out in 
the city, run to soirées, theatres, and 
balls. It is very rare that they return 
two days in succession to the same house 
to sit down and think quietly by the fire- 
side.” 

“ You are perfectly right,” said Victor 
Mazilier. “For an American, you are 
admirably well acquainted with our man- 
ners. Indeed, the prospect of finding at 
your house arm-chairs, fire in the chim- 
ney, and of enjoying a lively and anima- 
ted conversation, would not induce two 
persons to make you a visit. But you 
can ofier to your guests other pleasures, 
— some great attraction^ as the English 
say.” 

“What?” 

“Gambling,” replied he, looking at 
Cora. 

“What! Do you wish — — ” • 

“ I wish for nothing ; but if I were in 
your place, I would say to myself, ‘ I 
have a capital of about a hundred thou- 
sand francs, which, invested in the most 
advantageous way possible, would afford 
me hardly seven or eight thousand francs’ 
income. That is insufficient for living in 
Paris.’ Is that your opinion?” 

“Is it yours?” 

“ It is mine.” 

“ Then I share it. Go on.” 

Encouraged by Cora, Victor Mazilier 
developed his plan : 

“We say, then,” he replied, “that 
eight thousand francs’ income would not 


be sufficient to live upon. But you have 
not eight thousand francs’ income. You 
possess a disposable capital of a hundred 
thousand francs, — an insignificant sum, 
perhaps, in the hands of a man obliged, 
under pain of falling in public esteem, to 
respect numerous prejudices and to make 
the best of his money legally ; an enor- 
mous sum, on the contrary, in the hands 
of a woman who does not belong to the 
fashionable world, who has no definite 
place in society, who is not obliged to 
trouble herself about any one, and whom 
exaggerated scruples cannot disquiet.” 

“ You are right,” said Cora. “ For 
whom should I trouble myself? What 
social practices have I to respect?” 

“ Certain ones, which I will mention 
hereafter. Let us attend to the most 
urgent. In your place, I would like for 
my hundred thousand francs to bring me 
in at least, you understand, at least from 
twenty-five to thirty thousand francs in- 
come.” 

“ I would like to have it so. Develop, 
my dear friend, develop your idea.” 

“ I will do so. In the first place, you 
will set out for Paris in quest of a suita- 
ble apartment, or, which would be better, 
a small isolated mysterious hotel, far from 
noise and bustle, but in a quarter fre- 
quented by fashion : the avenue of Eylau, 
of Friedland, the first houses of Neuilly, 
for example. When your visitors call 
upon you, they should have to turn aside 
as little as possible from the way to the 
woods of Boulogne ; but enough, how- 
ever, to cause the carriages following to 
lose sight of them and not know where 
they are going. The hotel in question 
being once hired, not bought, which would 
diminish your capital, we will proceed to 
furnish it. The greatest simplicity should 
be observed in the furnishing of your 
sleeping room, toilet cabinet, and, finally, 
all rooms which are to be kept shut to 
visitors. But, on the other hand, in all 
those that are to open to them, as the 
large drawing-room, smoking-room, bou- 
doir, dining-room, we must display not 


102 


ARTICLE 47. 


luxury, but good taste and comfort. 
Everywhere thick carpets to deaden the 
noise, ample silk curtains and soft divans. 
No tables set in the middle of the drawing- 
room, as if intended for gamblers. A 
hostess must be coaxed before allowing 
her guests to commence playing. Only 
the cards are to be all ready in a drawer, 
the tables are waiting in the embrasure 
of a window, and the servants are trained, 
at a signal, to place them in the middle 
of the room. By the way, as we are on 
the subject of furniture, let there be no 
chandeliers, no wax candles, I beg of 
you. Gamblers have, almost all of them, 
weak eyes. They want lamps with green 
shades. Is that understood?” 

“ So much the better understood as, for 
cause, I dislike the light myself.” 

“ I have already told you that you will 
be enchanting in a subdued light.” 

“ With my elbows resting on the card 
table, eh !” said she, in tones evincing a 
certain bitterness, “ the lower part of my 
face hidden in my hands, so as to allow 
only my eyes, forehead, and hair to be 
seen. Look, like that?” 

“ Perfect 5 you have devised the right 
position. I have never been troubled on 
your account. Shall I go on ?” 

“You will much oblige me.” 

“ Go on, it is, then. The question of 
furniture being settled, there remains that 
about servants. You have, doubtless, in 
New Orleans, been accustomed to the 
service of negroes. I can furnish you 
with one who comes to me from Bourbon. 
Do you want him ?” 

“ No,” said she, “ no negroes. I have 
had enough of them. I have a horror of 
the race. I want white people in my 
service.” 

“ White they shall be, then, and I sup- 
press my negro. You will need a boy at 
the front door, a valet de chambre to in- 
troduce persons, to answer the bell, and 
serve at the table. You will dress him 
in the English fashion, which is in good 
taste. No head man ; it is too dear, and 
you have no need of him. People will 


never dine with you, but only sup. One 
cook will suffice for the preparation of 
the cold dishes, etc. You will require 
that she shall have a specialty, a skill in 
preparing a predilection dish. I will 
give her a recipe for roast lobster with 
Madeira wine, and absinthe cutlets ; this 
is an excellent dish, and will cause you 
to be talked of all over Paris. No coach- 
man, you understand, for you will never 
go out, or as rarely as possible ; a car- 
riage for the hour will suffice. It remains 
for you to find, for your personal service, 
a femme de chambre. Do you wish for 
a young woman?” 

“Yes, as young as possible.” 

“ Pretty ?” 

“ That would be no objection.” 

“ If you will advertise, the girl-brokers 
will furnish the article. Well, the house 
is furnished and ready for business ; 
now ” 

“Now, let us speak of the guests des- 
tined to inhabit it. Where shall I find 
them ? You advise me to receive only 
people of fashion. Do they not all form 
a part of some circle ? You have told me 
so. What interest will they have in 
quitting it, and coming to my house?” 

“ I will tell you. The members of a 
circle well-constituted may be divided 
into three classes : those who never play, 
and who are the most numerous : those 
who indulge in respectable plays, such as 
whist, piquet, Boston ; and finally those 
who play only games of chance. These 
would rather meet in a house like yours, 
than in their own circles, where they 
have, on all sides, eyes fixed upon them, 
where their doings are observed, judged 
severely, reported and published the next 
day in the papers: terrible indiscretions 
which may cause trouble in families. I 
count upon those timid and timorous 
gamblers to form for you the nucleus of 
the faithful.” 

Cora listened to him with attention. 
She understood instinctively that Victor 
Mazilier knew perfectly the subject he 
had undertaken to treat, and that his ex- 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


103 


perience in such matters was most com- 
plete. She could trust to him and under- 
take anything with such a master, a veri- 
table doctor of Parisian science. The 
assurance with which he expressed him- 
self, his decided tone, the gestures accom- 
panying his discourse, the use of his cane, 
and his attitudes, made a lively impression 
upon Cora. Like all people of color, she 
was captivated by jingle, noise, and 
parade. The simple and upright nature 
of George du Hamel had no power to 
captivate her, but she was dazzled by the 
allurements of Victor Mazilier. 

“ I have thus far spoken to you,” said 
Mazilier, “ of gamblers interested in con- 
cealing their errors, and to whom your 
hotel would offer a mysterious asylum. 
Every sum lost at gambling must be paid 
in twenty-four hours, and the name of 
every one who has neglected to do so is 
posted in the regular clubs ; but at your 
house this unpleasant thing might be 
avoided. Ah 1 if some compassionate 
soul, a good soul like mine, for example, 
would say to them : ‘ I know a mys- 
terious, discreet house, kept by a charm- 
ing woman -, you will meet there, only 
with fashionable people, too well-bred to 
refuse to play with a gentleman because 
he is in debt and not able always to pay 
immediately when he has lost at cards.’ 
Verily, verily, I say unto you, my dear 
Cora, that your house, well understood, 
well started, and well kept, must have, in 
a short time, immense success.” 

Victor Mazilier stopped to take breath. 
But Cora was too much interested to 
grant him a long respite, and, after giv- 
ing him hardly time to light a cigar, she 
started new objections. 

“ The question which disquieted me 
just now,” said she, “ is now solved. My 
house has select and numerous guests. 
They are pleased with it, and accustomed 
to it. Are you not afraid that some fine 
day these habits may be disturbed ?” 

“ By whom ?” asked he, negligently 
discharging a mouthful of smoke. 

“ By the police,” replied she. 


“ The police ! What should it visit you 
for?” \ 

“ Have I not heard it said that one had 
not a right to give a chance to play or 
gamble in a continued, regular manner ?” 

“ Nonsense ! there is no law against 
it.” 

“ Then why do we read so often in the 
papers that the police made a descent 
upon such or such an establishment?” ' 

“ It was a public place. The police 
had a right to watch it.” 

“ A commissioner visited a person, 
lately, whose name I do not remember, 
living in Drouot Street, in the third 
story ” 

“ Of a furnished house. Furnished 
houses, in some cases, may be considered 
as public.” 

“Would it be sufficient, then, accord- 
ing to what you say, to buy furniture, in 
order to keep a gambling-house without 
being interfered with?” 

“ No, indeed ! But you have a right 
not to require your guests to pay you 
anything for your hospitality, and the 
permission given them to amuse them- 
selves the best way they can.” 

She looked at him with astonishment, 
and said, — 

“ Then how do you suppose I am going 
to live ? My furniture has cost me a 
good deal, I have a considerable rent to 
pay, numerous domestics, and expenses 
of all kinds.” 

“ I expected you would come to that, 
my dear,” said he, while lighting a new 
cigar by the one he had just finished. 
And when this important operation was 
finished, he resumed, in these terms, — 

“ I have not yet detailed to you all 
your expenses, but I will do it : you must 
supply your guests with cards every 
evening, and renew them, if necessary, 
during the night, and never allow them 
to pay for them. If they are thirsty, on 
a signal from you your valet will bring 
sherbet, ices, grogs, syrups of all sorts, 
punch, nay, even the best of champagne. 
If they are hungry they can pass into 


104 


ARTICLE Jf7. 


the dining-room and help themselves at 
their leisure, and at your expense. Ke- 
member well this : it will be your privi- 
lege to see them gamble all night, but 
you must not touch the cards.” 

For what purpose ?” 

‘‘ For the purpose of showing in an un- 
deniable way that your receptions are 
very costly, and can bring you in no profit 
whatever.” 

“ It .would be difficult to entertain any 
doubt of that; but then ” 

“ Then, as you will receive only the 
fashionable, accustomed by education to 
the delicacies and proprieties of life, they 
will be anxious to indemnify you in an 
indirect way for all your expenses. They 
will first unite and offer you a hijou of a 
certain value. Then, when become more 
intimate on both sides, they will request 
you to buy the jewel yourself, and enclose 
the money in an envelope with some deli- 
cate compliment which will give no 
offense. If they make an unexpected 
gain, they will assure you that they had 
mentally associated you in the game, and 
will oblige you to take your part of the 
benefit Finally, my beauty, you have a 
thousand sources of income which I could 
enumerate. I know all about how these 
things are managed, so give yourself no 
uneasiness about income. There, I have 
finished. You asked for advice, and I 
have given it, and defy you to find a 
better.” 

“ Well, I think it is good,” said she. 

“Zounds! of course it is good. You 
might doubt it, if it were disinterested. 
If I should say to you, ‘ Do this, do that, 
and then adieu, the matter does not con- 
cern me,’ it would be a different thing. 
But I have my own little interest in see- 
ing you put my advice in practice, there- 
fore it is of first quality.” 

“What interest?” asked Cora. 

“Your wound,” said he, “which brought 
you thirty thousand francs, has cost me a 
pension of six thousand, which my father 
used to give me.” 

“ How so?” asked she. 


Before answering, he extended himself 
at full length on the sofa, where he had 
been sitting since the beginning of this 
conversation. 

“ You ask me,” said he, when he had 
comfortably located himself, “ how your 
wound made me lose six thousand francs 
income. It is very simple. My father 
was angry on seeing the name of Mazi- 
lier, so justly esteemed in Havre, men- 
tioned in a criminal suit, and his son cited 
as a witness. My deposition in the case, 
which he read in his paper, posted him up 
in regard to my doings at the time of 
your landing and on the day following. 
He shuddered at the idea of the dangers 
which his only son might incur with a 
woman like you, a woman into whose 
face a man fires a pistol through jealousy. 
He said to himself, ‘ If I stop his pension, 
he will hasten to return to his work in my 
office, and no longer be about the wharves 
on the arrival of emigrant women.’ Hence 
the hint that I must no longer rely upon 
him unless I made myself remarkable for 
zeal and labor. But zeal and labor, you 
know, are not my forte. I would willingly 
pass two days and two nights in succes- 
sion, sitting on a chair, turning cards ; 
but to write letters for three hours in an 
office, which I confess is much less fatigu- 
ing, never ! I paid no attention to the in- 
timation of my father, and bade him 
affectionate adieus ; and, if you see me 
now at Bouen, near you, it is because 
Bouen is on the way of every one who 
is, like me, going from Havre to Paris.” 

“ Then you will accompany me ?” 

“ I will,” said he. “I am aiding you 
to find a small hotel. I furnish it with 
you. I procure servants for you, and give 
to your cook the famous recipe for lobster 
with Madeira wine, for absinthian cutlets. 
I install you as a princess, and forthwith 
go in search of the court which I have 
promised you. In three months it will be 
full, and in six months you will reap what 
you have sown.” 

“ But what will become of you ?” 

“ My life is all marked out. In the 


^ THE HIGH POLICE. 


105 


daytime I sleep. The evenings and nights 
I spend at your house, if you are kind 
enough to allow it.” 

“ Nothing more would be required to 
induce me to turn you out-of-doors. But 
your father has cut off your living ; what 
will you do if you lose?” 

“ Oh, my dear friend, whem one’s name 
is Victor Mazilier, and he is the son of the 
richest ship-owner of Havre, he always 
finds money. Besides, if I must tell you 
the real truth, I shall not lose.” 

“ How can you help it?” 

“ One does not lose when he is intelli- 
gent and master of himself ; when the 
game, instead of being only a pleasure, 
becomes in some measure a means of ex- 
istence. Up to the present time T have 
played a good deal, lost a good deal, and 
acquired an experience which will serve 
me for the rest of my life. I have made 
your fortune by giving you an idea ; you 
will make mine by putting that idea in 
practice. Our interests are closely united. 
So much for the present, dear Cora, and 
now I must leave you. I have talked so 
much that I am dying with hunger. I am 
going to dine at the English hotel. I 
return at half-past seven ; and if you like, 
we will leave to-morrow for Paris.” 


ZX- 

This plan was strictly followed. Had 
it been a bad one, Cora would certainly 
have adopted it with the same ardor. Had 
she not been, as we have said, dazzled and 
subjugated by Victor Mazilier, at first 
sight? Upon a suggestion from him, she 
would have committed the greatest follies ; 
but though he was likely to be guilty of 
them, he was incapable of recommending 
them. Victor Mazilier was not a person- 
ality, he was a type. His character re- 
sembles that of many young men of our 
time. Under a trivial exterior is hidden 
a precocious experience. They have often. 


at twenty years of age, a perfect knowl- 
edge of Parisian life. They know all the 
dangers of it. They have seen and studied 
everything. They know the price of 
things and their value. A glance is suffi- 
cient to enable them to tell to what class 

of society Madame X belongs, and 

what should be thought of her character. 
They pass often upon the men of their 
acquaintance excellent judgment. 

A young man of twenty said recently, 
in our presence, to his father, “You do 

wrong to trust to Monsieur V . He 

does not inspire me with confidence.” 
Experience proved that the son was right. 
Must we say that the young men of our 
day are guilty of more indiscretions than 
their predecessors? We do not believe 
it. They are guilty of neither more nor 
less ; but they commit their follies with 
a knowledge of cause, without illusion 
and without excuse. If they have a mis- 
tress, they know they are deceived, or 
else they affirm that they are, even when 
they do not believe it. They deny vir- 
tue, and are suspicious of honesty or 
good faith. When they lose at play, in- 
stead of saying they are unlucky, they 
say they have been robbed. If one boasts 
of great disinterestedness in their pres- 
ence, they try to show that it is calcula- 
tion. Devotedness in their eyes becomes 
platitude, religious practices hypocrisy, 
and misery a consequence of vice. 

Thus the plan of Victor Mazilier was 
excellent, because it was based upon a 
perfect understanding of Parisian life, 
and upon the most ingenious means of 
satisfying vice. 

At the entrance of Neuilly Avenue 
Cora found, on her arrival at Paris, a 
small hotel, between court and garden, 
which was furnished in the most intelli- 
gent manner, and became in a short 
time — thanks to the activity and numer- 
ous relations of Victor Mazilier — the 
rendezvous of some twenty gamblers, all 
persons of good company. 

Admirably advised, and especially well 
served by a deep instinct, which, in cer- 


106 


ARTICLE Jfl. 


tain women, takes the place of tact, she 
succeeded in taking a good position in 
this little circle of habitués and faithful 
ones. Before her accident, charming as 
she was, her situation, as mistress of a 
house receiving only men, might have 
been more difiBcult. Gambler though he 
may be, one thinks sometimes, while 
waiting for his turn, of looking at a 
pretty woman seated at your side. Some 
night, when one has gained, or doesn’t 
■wish to play any more for fear of losing, 
he goes and takes a seat by the side of 
her, and whispers a compliment in her 
ear. Soon rivalries are established, jeal- 
ousies spring up, and discord breaks out 
in the camp of the faithful. 

At the end of one year, the maison 
founded by Cora had acquired a great 
reputation, and was well patronized. If 
the situation of Cora became better daily, 
that of Mazilier kept pace with it, with- 
out departing a moment from his princi- 
ples or being reproached with the least 
impropriety. Every evening, between 
ten and eleven, he would take his seat at 
the gambling-table, and take up the cards as 
coolly as a clerk takes his place at his desk 
and resumes the pen to which he owes his 
means of subsistence. He played with 
great prudence, risking only insignificant 
sums, but, thanks to his understanding 
of the game, it was rare that he lost at 
the end of the night, and his gains, al- 
most daily repeated, constituted a kind 
of revenue. 

“Ah, labor!” said he to Cora; “what 
a fine thing! To be able to dispense 
with one’s family, and owe position only 
to one’s self! Ah, what satisfaction !” 

The gains of Victor assumed import- 
ance when added up, but were too small 
at the end of each evening to attract the 
attention of the other gamblers. 

Very high games were played at 
Cora’s. The losses were often tens of 
thousands, and small gamblers passed 
unnoticed. Thus but little notice was 
taken of young Mazilier, except to ask 
now and then what prerogative he en- 


joyed in the house, and what was his 
exact position in relation to Cora. 

Nobody could answer this question, so 
great was their reserve in their inter- 
course with each other. Cora didn’t ap- 
pear to make any difference between 
Victor and her guests; and the latter, 
when they retired at four, five, or six in 
the morning, had always for companion 
the son of the Havre shipowner. 

It would be inexcusable in us to betray 
a secret which the two friends so care- 
fully kept, but we may affirm that the 
influence exerted by Victor over Cora 
increased every day. He governed her 
completely, and had, so to speak, made 
her his slave. 

But the blood of the slave is not al- 
ways dormant. For a time its circulation 
may be arrested, yet, sooner or later, it 
is restored, and that blood, transmitted 
from generation to generation, begins to 
boil. 

With her negroes and with George du 
Hamel Cora had behaved like a tyrant. 
She had avenged herself upon them for 
the domination under which her ancestors 
had lived. Born to obey, she had found 
a rude enjoyment in the exercise of com- 
mand and tyranny. But the emancipated 
slave, tired of her liberty, had, of her 
own accord, given herself up to a mas- 
ter. She might have chosen one tall and 
handsome, generous and brave; but she 
had taken one small and ugly, weak and 
corrupt. 

Haughty and arrogant with George du 
Hamel, she was humble and submissive 
with Victor Mazilier. She yielded blind 
obedience to his will, bent to his exi- 
gencies, and bore with his caprices. In 
private, he treated her as one would not 
treat the lowest courtesan, and she never 
complained. The fancy took him one 
day to beat her, as she had formerly 
beaten her mulatto girls, and she allowed 
him to do it. 

On one single point, one only, she 
would never yield to him, but refused to 
think as he did. It was when the con- 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


107 


versation turned upon George du Hamel. 
Sometimes Victor would seem to pity the 
fate of that unfortunate man, and would 
say,— 

“ He is suffering very cruelly for a 
momentary sally of passion.” 

“Ah!” she would exclaim, “do you 
call that a momentary passion ? you 
speak quite indulgently on the subject. 
In my opinion and in that of the jury, it 
was an attempt at assassination, followed 
by robbery.” 

“ Don’t annoy me any more about that 
robbery,” Victor would reply; “he never 
thought of robbing you. I have already 
forbidden you to repeat that calumny. 
It may have had its effect in preparing 
the case ; by profession lawyers are dis- 
posed to believe the worst. For one, I 
have never for a moment believed your 
accusation, and you ought to bless me for 
not telling in court what I thought of it. 
It is true that the president did not ask 
my opinion on the subject.” 

“ You could not have missed it more 
than to have testified against me 1” 

“ I ought, perhaps, to have done it. 
Was not I the cause of the angry emotion 
of that poor Du Hamel ? I maintain the 
expression. If I had not paid court to 
you, if I had not taken you to dine in 
Paris Street, if we had not gone together 
to visit the country seats in the environs, 
the scene, which has terminated so un- 
fortunactely for him, would not have 
occurred.” 

“ How for him f Is it him whom you 
pity?” 

“ I pity him so much, that I have a 
proposition to make to you.” 

“ Let us see, it must be a pretty one.” 

“ Among your habitual guests, and 
those with whom you are most familiar, 
there is one who has, it is said, a great 
influence in the ministry of justice.” 

“Who is he ?” 

“ Monsieur De V .” 

“ Well ?” 

“ Request him to go to the pardoning 
office and obtain the remission of one- 


half of George du Hamel’s penalty, or 
punishment. This is the time or never. 
The poor fellow has been in the galleys, 
it is now two years and a half. I rely 
on you for this move ; for, I will not con- 
ceal it, I feel a very serious remorse, and 
this is the only means of appeasing it.” 

“Well,” exclaimed she, “I shall do 
nothing to appease your remorse. Keep 
it.” 

These scenes generally terminated 
badly. Mazilier, accustomed to the pas- 
sive obedience of Cora, ended by getting 
into a passion. As an exception, he ob- 
tained nothing from her. The next day 
he thought of another thing, and said no 
more about Dgi Hamel. And so Cora 
imagined that he had dismissed the idea 
of getting her to take the course he re- 
commended in regard to a remission of a 
half of Du Hamel’s sentence, and had 
undertaken it himself. She became un- 
easy at the idea that he might succeed, 
and shuddered at the thought that the 
man for whom she had sworn a mortal 
hatred might be free and happy. 

This fear got such possession of her 
mind, that she resolved one day to know 
positively what to rely upon in regard to 
the fate of George du Hamel. 


III. 

It was in the beginning of July, and 
Cora’s rooms had been closed for a fort- 
night. In spite of their love of gambling, 
her patrons knew too well the art of liv- 
ing, to remain at Paris in this season of 
the year. They had gone to the sea-shore 
or to the springs, after agreeing to meet 
again in the little Hotel Neuilly at the 
end of September. One evening, as Vic- 
tor was in conversation with Cora in the 
large drawing-room, she suddenly said to 
him, — 

“ Do you enjoy yourself much in 
Paris ?” 


108 


ARTICLE Jff. 


said he, smothering a gape, “ not 
the least in the world. I have nothing 
to do, and that makes me unhappy. When 
one is fond of labor of some kind, inaction 
is painful.” 

Suppose we should travel,” said she, 
timidly. 

“ I was thinking of that. But in what 
direction shall we go? The coasts of 
Normandy are interdicted to us : I should 
meet my family there. Switzerland is 
tiresome, Germany frightens me. I know 
myself 5 I should get to gambling there, 
and lose all my earnings for the year.” 

“ What do you think,” said she, “ of a 
trip to the south ?” 

“ The south ! why, just think of the 
heat ! Bo you wish to see me entirely 
melt away ? I have none too much flesh 
now.” 

She understood that it would not do to 
insist, and turned’ the difi&culty : 

“ I mean by the south,” said she, “ Lu- 
chon, Biarritz, the Pyrenees, etc.” 

“ Very well. The Pyrenees, yes, that 
is an idea. I am not very partial to 
mountains, because I am not tall, and 
they make me seem still less so. But 
they are cool and refreshing. Let us try 
them.” 

Two days after, Cora took with Victor 
the line from Paris to Bordeaux. From 
Bordeaux they went to Bayonne and the 
Pyrenees. But as Victor was soon tired 
and could hardly remain two days in one 
place, they had in a short time run over 
all the interesting points of this part of 
France. 

“And what shall we do now?” said 
they. 

“ Since we have nothing better to do,” 
said Cora, “why not visit Bordeaux, 
which we have only crossed over?” 

“ Well, Bordeaux, then. Ah, the sum- 
mer ; good heavens ! The summer, hbw 
ridiculous it is ! When will winter return, 
that I may resume my work !” 

After passing twenty-four hours at 
Bordeaux they took the southern line, 
stopped at the principal stations, and ar- 


rived at Cette. Then Cora manifested a 
desire to see Marseilles. 

“ Why,” said her companion, “ you are 
insatiable, my dear.” 

“ It is, I am told, a very curious city.” 

“ Pardon me ! all cities are alike. He 
who has seen Perpignan has seen Mar- 
seilles.” 

“ What do you say ? Compare a sea- 
port with ” 

“ Cora,” said he, interrupting her. 

“ My friend?” 

“ Look me in the face.” 

“Ido.” 

“ You are fooling with me, are you 
not?” 

“ Not in the least.” 

“ What is your object in taking me to 
Marseilles?” 

“ I have no object, my friend. I ” 

“You have one. I know you.” 

Then suddenly he exclaimed, “ Am I a 
fool, that I had not guessed her object 
sooner ? She has been dragging me after 
her for a month; she condemns me to an 
insupportable life ; she puts me in front 
of mountains which humiliate me; she 
makes me eat all the dust of France, 
and ah, what a roundabout way!” 

“ I don’t understand you. What round- 
about way do you speak of? We have 
taken none.” 

“ Ah, indeed ! Is it not roundabout to 
go by the way of Bayonne and the Pyre- 
nees in order to go from Paris to Tou- 
lon ?” 

“ Toulon !” said she. 

“ Yes, Toulon. Pray cease playing as- 
tonishment. Do I not know you? Cora, 
you have deceived me. Since your de- 
parture from Paris you have been aiming 
for Toulon.” 

“ For what purpose?” 

“ She asks that question as if I didn’t 
know her good little heart ! You wish 
to visit the prison at Toulon, and learn 
for yourself something about George du 
Hamel.” 

“ Not so, I assure you. Far from me 
the thought.” 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


109 


“Truly?” 

“ Truly.” 

“Then, my dear, we will leave this 
evening for Paris.” 

“ But ” 

“You hesitate. I had guessed right. 
Be frank, or, if not, I declare to you 
that in twenty-four hours the avenue of 
Neuilly shall see us returned. Come, 
you wish to see him, do you not? Con- 
fess itl” 

“Well, yes,” said she, suddenly. 

“Very well. You are very glad to 
ë'now if he is still in prison at Toulon, 
and if the steps which you have taken to 
obtain his pardon have succeeded.” 

“ I have taken none.” 

“ Zounds 1 But you wish to know if 
others have attempted to do something?” 

“ Yes, — you, for example.” 

“ Oh, it is not the desire that has been 
wanting on my part, but I have been so 
busy this winter. Besides, our steps, 
pferhaps, were useless. Suppose that by 
chance he had made his escape. Have 
you ever thought of that?” 

“ Often ; and that is why ” 

“ I understand,” said he, interrupting 
her ; “ I have guessed it. You would 
not be sorry to be sure of his presence in 
prison from your own knowledge, de 
visu. I speak Latin with a facility which 
frightens me. You would rejoice at the 
idea of finding with chains around his 
ankles the man you have so much 
loved !” 

“ Him who has made me suffer so 
much? Yes, I would.” 

“Well, my friend, why did you not 
say so before? It was useless to take me 
to this place. Let us leave for Toulon.” 

“ Ah, do you consent ” 

“ I consent to see this unfortunate 
man, — to try to assist him, — to obtain 
his pardon if I can. I have need of 
emotion. Gambling no longer affords me 
any. The galleys and workshops of Tou- 
lon will give it. I have anticipated you, 
and shall do all in my power to be useful 
to your mortal enemy.” 


“Bah!” said she. “At Toulon you 
can do nothing, as you have no connec- 
tions there. At Paris you will forget 
him.” 

Two days after this conversation they 
stopped in one of the best hotels of Tou- 
lon. 


IV. 

Permission to visit the prisons and 
places of confinement in France is, per- 
haps, too readily granted to strangers. To 
say nothing of the humiliation a prisoner 
may feel, on finding himself face to face 
with persons who stare at him, analyze 
his features, and who may have known 
him in a better situation, it is certainly 
painful to a man deprived of his liberty 
to be in contact with people enjoying 
all their rights and obeying only their 
own desires. If visitors knew how to 
behave themselves when visiting prisons 
it would be a different thing. But many 
run through a prison or place of confine- 
ment with as much indifference as if 
they were visiting a museum. They stop 
before certain convicts as they would at 
the Louvre to contemplate certain pic- 
tures to which their attention had been 
called. They talk of their business and 
pleasures without thinking that they are 
heard and envied. Women especially err 
in this respect, and too often forget the 
proprieties of the place. 

On their arrival at Toulon Victor and 
Cora went in search of authority to visit 
the arsenal and its dependences, — that is, 
the hagne, or place of confinement, which 
is a part of it. 

The keeper of the hotel where they 
stopped gave them the proper directions 
for accomplishing their object. 

One morning, about eleven o’clock, 
after rapidly visiting several parts of the 
arsenal, they called on the commissary 
of the prison, who ordered a galley com- 


110 


ARTICLE J^l. 


mander to direct them in their explora- 
tion. 

“Can we see everything?” asked Vic- 
tor, while following his guide. 

“You will see one of the principal 
wards, the infirmary, and several ship- 
yards where the convicts work, and so 
on. But the public, except by special 
permission, cannot enter certain other 
places.” 

“ What ones ?” 

“ Those where certain dangerous men 
are kept, whom we cannot trust.” 

“ Let us not go in that direction,” said 
Victor. 

They began their visit in company with 
their guide, who gave them information 
upon all things ; but Cora hardly listened 
to him. It was George du Hamel she 
wanted to see, for he alone interested her. 
She was afraid, however, to ask any direct 
questions. If the prison opens its doors 
to strangers, it shuts them against people 
who seem to be guided in their visit by 
another sentiment than curiosity. Es- 
capes are so frequent at Toulon, that 
every precaution is necessary to prevent 
them. 

However, with a little address, she was 
soon able to question the guide without 
exciting his suspicions. 

“ Have you at this time in prison any 
celebrity P'' asked she. 

“Nothing in particular,” said he. 
“ Everything we had in that line left yes- 
terday for Cayenne.” 

“ Ah, that’s a pity. I should like to 
have seen the physiognomy of some of 
your heroes. I often read the Court 
Gazette, and hoped to find here some of 
the characters that I have seen mentioned 
there.” 

“We still have perhaps a few,” said 
the guide, deceived by the afiected in- 
difierence of Cora, “if madame would 
designate them.” 

“ Do you not know them by name?” 

“ Very rarely, madame. The convicts 
have numbers inscribed on their clothes. 
AVhen we have to call them it is only 


necessary to look at them. We know 
some of them also by their crimes. Do 
you see that very small man passing 
yonder ?” 

“He is not four feet high,” replied 
Cora. 

“ Ah, good heavens 1” said Victor, 
straightening up and trying to appear 
taller, “ what crime can one have com- 
mitted who is no taller than that? A 
theft only, at the most.” 

“ He is an assassin,” said the guide. 

“ Well, his victim must have been very 
accommodating. He must have stoopeu 
to enable him to strike. Whom, pray, did 
he kill?” 

“ Three small children. While his ac- 
complices were assassinating the father 
and mother, he had been ordered to keep 
the children from giving the alarm. He 
found nothing better adapted to this 
object than to shut them up in a trunk 
and sit down upon the cover. When he 
lifted the cover the children did not cry 
out any more, for they were dead. His 
accomplices denied it, maintaining that it 
was a useless crime and that they had not 
ordered it.” 

“ Villainous man,” said the young Ma- 
zilier, eyeing the little convict. 

“ That sort of crime does not interest 
me much,” said Cora. “As a woman, I 
like those trials in which jealousy plays a 
part. What was the name of that young 
man,” said she to Victor, “ who was con- 
demned, two or three years ago, for an 
attempt to assassinate his mistress ? You 
know very well, my dear, for you read to 
me the trial.” 

“ Yes, yes, I remember, but the name 
escapes me. Wait a moment,” continued 
he, trying apparently to remember; “was 

it not No, — I am confounding it with 

another trial. Ah 1 now I have it, — I’ve 
got it: George du Hamel.” 

“ That’s it,” said Cora. 

“ Do you know him ?” asked she of 
the guide. 

“ George du Hamel ? no, madame ; no. 
Three years ago, do you say ?” 


THE HIGH POLICE, 


111 


“Yes, from two and a half to three 
years, isn’t it, Victor?” 

“ Perfectly right, my friend ; your 
memory is very exact.” 

“ Was he condemned for life?” said the 
guard. 

“ No,” answered Mazilier, “ only for 
five years.” 

“Five years 1 ” said the guide, disdain- 
fully ; “ we pay no attention to those per- 
sons here: they are small criminals.” 

' It would not do to let the conversation 
drop, and so Cora spoke, — 

“ I thought you might have noticed the 
individual of whom I speak. There can- 
not he in the prison many persons of his 
class. He was a very elegant young man, 
said the Court Gazette.” 

“ Allow me a word,” said the guard 5 
“ was he not about thirty years of age ?” 

“ That was very nearly the age the 
papers gave, and they added that he was 
tall and robust.” 

“ That’s it, that’s it; I remember now, 
I know him. I have often conducted him 
to his work in the port ; I was director of 
the chain of which he was a part. He is 
No. 2007. Ah, if I had to deal only with 
men like him ! He is a lamb, madame, 
he is a veritable lamb !” 

“ A lamb that sometimes fires pistols, 
if I may depend on the report of his 
trial. Then,” resumed she, “his keepers 
are satisfied with his conduct? and his 
comrades, what do they think of him ?” 

“ Ah, they made his life hard during 
the first part of his stay in prison !” 

“Indeed?” 

“Yes; as he never talks, and keeps 
himself shut up, they accused him of 
making trouble and acting as a spy on 
his comrades. So there was no kind of 
misery which they did not imagine 
against him.” 

“And you could not prevent that?” 
said Victor. 

“ Impossible, sir ; each of us has often 
more than twenty men to look after.” 

“ And have his vexations continued ?” 

“ Oh, no, madame ; as he has a better 


education than the rest of them, he was 
able to render them a multitude of little 
favors, such as drawing up petitions, 

writing letters ; and thus ” 

“ So,” continued Cora, “ he enjoys the 
esteem of the prison. Can we catch a 
glimpse of this humble convict?” 

“It is possible we may fall in with 
him where the ships are being built.” 

“ Let us, then, cast an eye upon the 
ships in process of construction,” said 
she. 


•V. 

Victor Mazilier and Cora, preceded 
by their guide, had, a moment ago, left 
the buildings connected with the prison. 
They were going through the arsenal, 
where one meets at every step, in the 
hours of labor, columns of convicts under 
the direction of their overseers. 

Cora sought to recognize George du 
Hamel among all those unfortunate men, 
but could not succeed. 

“ That you have set your heart upon 
assuring yourself of his presence here,” 
said Victor, “ I well understand. You 
are a woman, — a littlp more of a woman 
even than others, — that is, more vindic- 
tive. You cannot pardon an act which 
has affected you in what you held most 
dear in the world — your beauty ; that is 
understood. But he is still in prison, — 
you know it now ; he has not been par- 
doned, he has not escaped, and is under- 
going his punishment. Your vengeance 
is going on, and what do you wish more? 
What good will it do you to be running 
about here in the sun to get a look at 
your victim?” 

“ That man may have been mistaken,” 
said she, pointing to the officer who pre- 
ceded them. “ I wish to be satisfied for 
and by myself. Otherwise, it would 
have been sufficient to send one of my 
friends to the Secretary of the Interior, 

i 


/ 


112 


ARTICLE Jr(. 


or of the Navy, and they would have 
given me information nearly as exact.” 

Suddenly, Victor took her by the arm, 
and said, — 

“ An idea occurs to me.” 

“ And what is it ?” 

“Do you still love him?” 

“ Jlove him? I hate him ” 

“ Ah I” said he, “ has it not been often 
asserted that between love and hate there 
is but little difference?” 

“ You are crazy !” 

“ Not so crazy. You are capable of 
loving him just because you suffer on ac- 
count of him. I did not really obtain 
command over you till the day when I 
began to maltreat and abuse you. One 
must expect everything from a charming 
nature like yours.” 

Their guide had just approached, in 
order to show them a park of cannon- 
balls. 

“Very curious, very curious,” said 
Mazilier-, “but, by the way, this walk 
in the arsenal appears to me very use- 
less. How can we expect to meet here 
the individual we were speaking of just 
now? You told me that he behaved 
himself very well, and was well edu- 
cated. He ought not to be employed in 
hard labor.” 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” replied the 
overseer. “ I was with the commissary 
last year, when the call was made for 
No. 2007, for the purpose of proposing 
to him to work in the office, and he 
refused.” 

“Why, pray?” 

“ He said that he had been condemned 
to hard labor, — that is, to corporeal labor, 

• — and that he was unwilling to evade it.” 

“ Ah ! truly said -, that is very good,” 
said Mazilier ; and, turning to Cora, he 
added, “ There are many points of con- 
tact between George du Hamel and my- 
self. Neither of us can endure the labor 
of the desk, and we prefer the severest 
hard labor.” 

The overseer, condemned to silence by 
his profession, and delighted to have an 


opportunity of chatting with persons so 
distinguished as Victor and Cora, con- 
tinued, — 

“No. 2007, as a reward for his good 
conduct, enjoys here only one favor, that 
of having no companion in chains.” 

“Ah!” said Mazilier, “has he no 
chains on his ankles?” 

“ I beg your pardon, sir ; a ring is 
riveted around his ankle, and the end of 
a chain is attached to it, but it is not 
joined to the chain of any other prisoner. 
He can conceal it under his pants, and 
walk about alone.” 

“ That is an advantage,” said Cora. 
“ Your 2007 is very fortunate in his con- 
finement.” 

“ Suppose you should take his place?” 
said Victor. 

The guard laughed heartily at this 
amiable pleasantry, and Cora, profiting 
by his good humor, slipped a louis into 
his hand, which produced a still better 
effect than the wit of young Mazilier. 

They had now arrived at that part of 
the arsenal reserved for the construction 
of ships of war. An immense three- 
decker, just finished, and waiting only a 
high tide to leave the stocks or to be 
launched, loomed up before them. Near 
the place were some fifty prisoners, occu- 
pied in carrying timber destined to make 
for the ship a sort of bed or cradle, to 
take her to the sea when the day for 
launching should be fixed on. 

“It is in this direction that we shall 
find our man,” said the guard. 

“Ah, do you think so?” said Victor, 
who felt a little excited. 

“ I am certain of it. They employ at 
this part of the arsenal persons who 
have only a short time to spend in prison, 
and to whom the idea of escaping does 
not occur.” 

“Ah! are escapes to be feared from 
this quarter?” 

“Yes, sir. The sea is near, and one 
may easily hide in the ships in process 
of building.” 

“You are right. I understand now 


TUE HIGH POLICE. 


]13 


the escapes the papers often speak 
about.” 

“Ah, sir, they give us a good deal of 
trouble, and we are always on the 
watch. Ah, I was not mistaken ! There 
he is.” 

“Where?” said Cora, excitedly. 

“ Yonder, behind the keel of that in- 
verted boat. He holds a mallet in his 
hand, and is driving a stake into the 
ground. If you wish to approach, ma- 
dame ” 

“ Let us,” said she. 

“ I remain here,” said Victor ; “ I am 
tired.” 

Cora advanced a few steps in company 
with the guard, but suddenly stopped. 

“What is the matter with her, pray?” 
said Mazilier, who followed her with his 
eye. “ Has he already recognized her ? 
and dares she not meet his eye ? No, he 
turns his back to her and has not yet 
seen her. What is the matter with 
her?” 

Curiosity got the better of fatigue, 
prudence, or pity, and he rejoined 
Cora. 

“ Well,” said he, taking her aside, “ do 
you feel any remorse ?” 

“I? No.” 

“ Are you afraid?” 

“Yes.” 

“ That’s it; the mallet he holds in his 
hand frightens you.” 

“ Away, nonsense. Besides, is not the 
man armed who accompanies us ? I fear 
something else.” 

“And what?” 

She leaned towards Mazilier, and 
said, — 

“He believes me, perhaps, cured of the 
wound he gave me, and thinks that I no 
longer suffer because of him, and that he 
is the only one to suffer, and this thought 
distresses him. I do not wish him to see 
me ugly and disfigured, he would be too 
happy.” 

“ Oh, the women !” murmured Mazilier, 
raising his arms toward heaven. 

He rejoined the guard and asked him 
8 


for some information, while Cora, who 
had seated herself on a pile of cordage, 
had her eyes fixed on George du Hamel. 

The nature of his labor had made him 
turn round for a moment, so that Cora 
was able now to see his face and dis- 
tinguish his features. 

In her dreams she had often seen him, 
pale, disfigured, emaciated ; in his eye 
and mouth were to be read anger, de- 
spair, and a thousand desires of ven- 
geance. But her dreams had deceived 
her ; she did not find him such as he had 
appeared to her. 

The face of George had rather become 
brown than pale : it had become longer 
instead of being emaciated, and had ac- 
quired one distinction more. In conse- 
quence of the incessant labor to which he 
was devoted, his shoulders had grown 
broader, and his chest was better devel- 
oped. Under his infamous livery, which 
fitted him so closely, the perfection of his 
personal form was exhibited to greater 
advantage. It was not anger and de- 
spair that one read in his face, but a sort 
of calm grief and itielancholy resignation. 

Suddenly he interrupted his labor, and, 
with one hand on his mallet and the 
other on his hip, he looked in the direc- 
tion where Cora was. 


■vz. 

On seeing a well-dresse(J woman in 
this part of the arsenal, where he usually 
met only his companions in misfortune 
and his guardians, George du Hamel 
could not but experience an emotion of 
surprise. 

At first he saw only in this person an 
object of diversion, a point on which to 
rest his eye, fatigued with monotonous 
perspective, a sort of relief to his ennui. 
Her elegant mantle, traveling-hat, and 
silk dress, which had suddenly struck his 
eye, operated on him like a charm. They 


114 


ARTICLE 47. 


recalled the time when he was happy 
and free, and when everything smiled 
upon him. lie contemplated the scene 
with delight, as one looks at a patch of 
blue sky on a sombre and cloudy day. 

But this was only a sensation. A differ- 
ent feeling was to succeed it : that of his 
humiliation and shame. 

Involuntarily, he lowered his eyes and 
surveyed his prison dress. The iron ring 
on his ankle imparted to him a sort of 
shudder, and he felt upon his head the 
cap of infamy. 

Then, in order to escape the eyes which 
he felt were directed to him, he crouched 
behind the boat near which he was at 
work. He trembled from head to foot; 
a cold sweat ran from his forehead. 

“ Hallo, there ! is that thç way you 
work?” cried out a voice suddenly. 

It was the guard, whose self-love in- 
duced him to show a little authority in 
the presence of the persons he was accom- 
panying. Without hesitation and with- 
out reply George du Hamel rose and 
resumed his mallet. 

“Come forward a little,” said the 
guard ; “ they wish to see you.” 

“ No, no,” said Victor ; “ it is useless.” 

Cora said nothing. She was as pale as 
George du Hamel, and looked at him 
steadily. 

With downcast eyes and mallet in 
hand, he advanced, in obedience to the 
orders of the officer. 

This mallet intimidated young Mazi- 
lier, who had taken refuge at the side of 
the guard. • 

In proportion as George advanced a sort 
of metamorphosis took place in him. He 
appeared to suffer no longer from his 
abasement, but stood erect, as if he was 
proud of it, and as if he was conscious of 
his moral valor. 

Soon he looked up, and his eye met that 
of Cora. 

He stopped, and remained in her pres- 
ence calm and silent, without giving any 
sign of new emotion. One might have 
thought that he did not recognize her. 


She rose, walked toward him, and 
said, — 

“ I have wished to see you.” 

“ I was expecting your visit,” said he. 

“Why ?” 

“You must be desirous of enjoying 
your vengeance.” 

“ That is true.” 

“ Do you enjoy it? Am I sufficiently 
miserable ?” 

“ And do you enjoy yours f Am I suf- 
ficiently disfigured ?” 

“ Ah !” said he, in a grave voice, “ I 
repent of my fault ; you will never re- 
pent of yours, and I pity you.” 

They looked at each other a moment in 
silence, which was broken by Cora. 

“Can you still love me?” said she, 
suddenly. 

“ Oh no,” he replied; “ I know you.” 

“ Do you wish me to obtain your par- 
don ?” 

“ It has already been offered me, but I 
have refused it.” 

“ Do you not suffer any ?” 

“ My body suffers sometimes, but my 
heart was never happier.” 

“ Then my vengeance is not complete.” 

“ No.” 

“ Adieu.” 

“ Adieu.” 

He turned, and slowly regained the 
vessel near which he was at work. 

Cora, after casting a last look at him, 
rejoined Victor Mazilier. 

“ What did he say to you ?” asked Vic- 
tor, drawing her a few steps away from 
the officer. 

“He told me that he loved me still, and 
that he would be revenged on you after 
getting out of prison.” 

“ Avenged on we Diable! that alters 
my feeling towards Am.” 

“ Decidedly,” said she. “ I have been 
reflecting, and have come to the conclusion 
to authorize you to ask for his pardon.” 

“ No, no. You are good and kind, 
very. But after this you will try perhaps 
to intimidate me, and prevent my taking 
any step in that direction.” 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


115 


“ Ah ” said she, “ little do I care now 
whether he remains in prison or leaves 
it ! He has managed to place himself 
above my vengeance ; it will never reach 
him so long as he is in service here. You 
are at liberty, therefore, dear friend, to 
ask for his pardon if you wish.” 

“ I give it up. With his prison dress 
and mallet, that man seems terrible.” 

Nothing retaining them any longer in 
the arsenal, they took leave of their guide 
and returned to their hotel. 

Eight days after they were in Paris. 


YTII. 

In the autumn the regular guests of 
Cora reappeared in the small house in 
Neuilly Avenue. 

All things were reduced to the accus- 
tomed order, and the year passed off as 
had the three years preceding. 

In 186-, following the advice of Victor, 
Cora enlarged her premises. Her draw- 
ing-room having become too small to con- 
tain the company which met every 
evening, she was obliged to refuse all 
new-comers. In order to show herself 
more hospitable, she hired a small hotel 
situated by the side of the one she lived 
in, and with some alterations, made one 
house out of the two. This enlargement 
enabled her to give admission to some 
persons who had for a long time been ap- 
plicants, among whom we ought to men- 
tion Monsieur De Drives and Monsieur 
De Mézin. 

At this time the father of Marcelle had 
already been a widower for a long time, 
but had not yet withdrawn his daughter 
from the convent. His fortune, consider- 
ably diminished by frequent visits to the 
watering-places, and by unbridled gam- 
bling in the winter in different clubs, was 
not yet dissipated. There remained to him, 
on the one hand, a constant income, which 
helped him to keep his house on a good 


footing ; and on the other, the real es- 
tate in Léonia Street, which afterwards 
George Gérard and his mother were to 
live in. Notwithstanding these remains 
of a great fortune, he was not less often 
much embarrassed when he happened at 
the club to meet with some important 
loss. On several occasions he had not 
been able to satisfy his creditors within the 
set time ; and had it not been for the kind- 
ness of Monsieur De Mézin, his colleague 
in the circle, who had advanced him im- 
portant sums, he would have been under 
an obligation to resign his place. 

This shows the necessity under which 
Monsieur De Drives was afterwards 
placed, of being as conciliating as possi- 
ble when Monsieur De Mézin asked him 
for his daughter’s hand. It shows also 
why he had been anxious to be received 
into Cora’s establishment, where the re- 
lations among the gamblers were less 
rigid than in the circle, and where one 
enjoyed certain privileges very valuable 
to a man who could, the day after a great 
loss, no longer draw on his banker. 

As to Monsieur De Mézin, he was 
nearly in the same situation as Monsieur 
De Drives, and made the same calcula- 
tions as he. He found, besides, at Cora’s, 
this valuable advantage to an aspirant for 
marriage, that his life as a gambler was 
more mysterious and more concealed than 
formerly. 

Of an amiable and insinuating charac- 
ter, he managed in a short time to gain 
the good graces of Cora, and became not 
only one of the faithful of the evening 
reunions, but a friend of the house. 

Two years and a half had elapsed since 
the visit of Victor Mazilier and Cora to 
the prison at Toulon. George du Hamel 
was about to finish his term of punish- 
ment. 

On seeing the time approach when her 
ancient lover would be restored to liberty, 
Cora thought a good deal about what was 
going to become of him. 

One day, being alone with one of her 


116 


ARTICLE kl. 


friends who was represented as a dis- 
tinguished lawyer, she thought she would 
utilize him by getting some instruction 
upon different points of law. 

“ Since my visit to Toulon,” said she, “ I 
have often asked myself what becomes 
of all those persons condemned to hard 
labor for five, ten, or twenty years, when 
they have served out their time. Do you 
know that it is very unpleasant to think 
that one is liable to meet them at any 
time ?” 

“ Not in Paris, dear madame ; a sojourn 
in our large cities is forbidden them.” 

“ How ! When they leave the prison are 
they not free ?” 

“ They are not absolutely free. They 
undergo a new punishment, called the 
surveillance of the high police.” 

“ The high police I What is the mean- 
ing of those words ? I hear them pro- 
nounced for the first time.” 

“ They should make no impression on 
your mind. Formerly they had a mean- 
ing, but no longer have any at the pres- 
ent time.” 

“But,” said Cora, “if the surveillance 
is a punishment, as you say, why is it 
not pronounced in connection with the 
judgment rendered against the criminal ? 
I was in attendance one day at a trial, 
which was ended by a condemnation to 
five years of hard labor, and no mention 
made of surveillance.” 

“ Because surveillance was, in this case, 
the necessary accompaniment of the sen- 
tence pronounced. If I were not afraid 
of tiring you, dear madame, I would give 
you a history of this law of surveillance, 
which I made a particular study of when 
I had more leisure.” 

“At the time, you mean,” said Cora, 
“ when as yet you didn’t play cards. I 
ask myself how a mind so serious as yours 
can love gambling.” 

“ / have abandoned asking myself that 
question, as I am not able to solve it. 
But what consoles me a little is, that I 
meet in your house several persons at 


least as serious as I. The wisest, you see^ 
have their weakness, or folly.” 

“ Well, my dear fool'' said she, smil- 
ing, “ give me the history you were speak- 
ing of, without fear of tiring me. We 
live in an epoch when women have need 
of instruction. I am a little weary, I con- 
fess to you, of frivolous conversation and 
reading. I have got so far along in my 
dislike of it, would you believe it? as to 
wish to find, even in a romance, some- 
thing other than dialogues one after the 
other, other than recitals and action. I 
demand of an author to sustain and de- 
velop some social thesis, to combat some 
prejudice, and discuss some point of law 
if he finds occasion for it. Everybody 
does not think as I do, I know. Frivo- 
lous people are in the majority. They 
ask for facts upon facts, while they have 
a horror for analysis or discussion, and 
everything that resembles an idea. So 
much the worse for the frivolous. The 
author who respects himself does not 
write for them. Such is my profession of 
faith, dear sir and friend. I wait for yours 
on the surveillance of the high police." 

“ You encourage me so much, madame,” 

said Monsieur X , “ that I should be 

guilty of bad grace if I waited to be 
urged any longer. But I give you notice 
that, if I am tiresome, you must blame 
yourself and not me. The measure 
called surveillance of the high police, and 
which succeeds the penalty and seizes the 
condemned at the very moment when his 
punishment is being finished, is a pecu- 
liar provision of the French law. It was 
not known in our ancient jurisprudence, 
and did not appear in the number of 
penalties announced by the penal code of 
1791. We find the first traces of it in a 
decree of the year XIII. According to 
this decree, the liberated prisoners were 
bound to declare in what commune they 
wished to establish their residence. On 
arriving in this commune, they were sub- 
ject to the surveillance of the local au- 
thority.” 

* * * * * * 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


117 


VIII. 

Cora listened attentively to these ex- 
planations. They are interesting to every 
one ; but for her whose conduct and depo- 
sitions had sent George du Hamel to 
prison, they had a special interest. 

The vengeance of Cora was now being 
completed, as she thought ; but five years 
of hard labor for a man who could bear 
so courageously his forced labor at Tou- 
lon, and had called to his assistance re- 
signation and philosophy, was a mere 
nothing. 

She was much more to be pitied than 
he. She was condemned to physical de- 
formity and loss of her beauty forever. 

But at the moment he was on the point 
of being free, she learned suddenly that 
another punishment was to succeed the 
first, a punishment that would be last- 
ing and terrible for a man of thirty, for 
whom life had still in reserve, perhaps, 
happy days and new enjoyments. 

On leaving Toulon another residence 
was to be assigned him. He could not 
escape it. Everybody would know, not 
merely his past, not his crime, for public 
opinion might, perhaps, have acquitted 
him, but the new and infamous punish- 
ment which had been inflicted. When he 
should pass in the street, people would 
point him out as a man liberated from 
state prison. Decidedly she was well 
avenged. 

She would sometimes ask herself if his 
punishment was in proportion to his 
fault. She became indulgent, and said to 
herself, it is punishing perhaps rather 
severely so handsome a young man, who 
has managed to remain even elegant in 
the livery of a criminal. 

She saw George du Hamel at Toulon 
standing before her, proud of his infamy, 
arrogant in spite of his humiliation, and 
overwhelming her with his pity and con- 
tempt. 

Ah ! if he had always taken that 
stand ; if instead of adoring and flattering 
her, he had resisted and checked her, 


perhaps she would have conducted her- 
self difierently with him, and perhaps 

Suddenly a fear assailed her, and 

she turned to Monsieur De X and 

said, — 

“ If the person put under surveillance 
should refuse to submit to it, and should 
not go to the residence assigned him, 
what then?” 

“The law, dear madame,” said Mon- 
sieur De X , “has given a penal sanc- 

tion to the measures of surveillance, and 
has made disobedience a special crime, 
which it designates by the name of rup- 
ture de ban. It would be tedious, madame, 
both for you and me, to go into the his- 
tory of all the legislation connected with 
this subject. I will say, however, that 
recent legislation has shown itself much 
more humane in this matter, and seems 
substantially to say; society is strong 
enough to be content with defending 
itself. Under the pretext of protecting 
itself against future and uncertain dan- 
gers, it has not the right to make laws in 
some sort preventive, and to say to an 
unfortunate man who has just expiated 
his crime by a long detention, ‘Under 
the fear that you may relapse into the 
same errors, I condemn you to a new 
punishment, I treat you as if you were 
guilty. You are no longer a prisoner, 
granted ; but I make you a slave for the 
rest of your life.’ When society says 
this, it is unjust and inhuman. I would 
rather it should incur some risk than be 
guilty of injustice.” 

Monsieur De X ceased talking, and 

Cora thanked him kindly. Thanks to 
his explanations, the law on surveillance 
had no longer any mystery for her. As 
to George du Hamel, she was now settled 
in regard to his fate and all the eventu- 
alities that might occur in the future. 
Through curiosity, perhaps in conse- 
quence of another feeling, she was de- 
sirous of knowing what residence had 
been assigned him on leaving his place of 
confinement. 

From calculations easy to make, the 


118 


ARTICLE 47. 


expiration of his punishment had taken 
place during the last days of 1864 ; it 
was then 1865, and he must already have 
selected his domicile in some provincial 
city or town. One evening she said to 
Mazilier, — 

“And that poor George du Hamel for 
whom you manifested so much pity, does 
he interest you no longer?” 

“Zounds!” said he, “ since you assured 
me that he was too much interested in 
me, the sympathy which he inspired has 
diminished.” 

“What! do you still remember his 
threats? I am sure he has forgotten them. 
Having passed five years in prison, he will 
not be tempted to return to it. At all 
events, in your place, I should like to 
know where he lives, in order not to run 
the risk of encountering him.” 

“Is he no longer in prison?” 

“ He must have left it six or eight 
months ago.” 

“ Ah, how fast time flies when one is 
busy! Well, where can he be? in Paris 
without any doubt. He will try to enjoy 
life, so as to make up for the beautiful 
years that he has lost.” 

“There is where you are mistaken. 
Residence in Paris is forbidden to every- 
body of his class.” 

“ Indeed ! Poor creatures ! Where can 
they live, then? Would they send them to 
Carcassonne, for example? Ah, that would 
be terrible ! I am not yet restored from 
my residence in that locality.” 

“It would be interesting,” said Cora, 
“to know what residence has been as- 
signed him.” 

“How would that profit you?” 

“I should not meet him.” 

“ That can be easily arranged. Let us 
never leave Paris.” 

“It may happen that we may be 
obliged to travel, in which case it would 
be well to know where my enemy and 
yours is.” 

^^Mine! Yes, you are right*, but how 
shall I know where he is?” 

“You have friends in all directions. 


among people at large and in the ad- 
ministration. Ask them to whom you 
must apply for information. I repeat to 
you that in your own interest I wish to 
be informed.” 

“I am not to be duped by your solici- 
tude for me, dear friend; it conceals a 
mystery. But a little prudence will do 
no harm. I will do what you desire.” 

Three weeks after this conversation, 
Victor entered one day somewhat ab- 
ruptly Cora’s room and said, — 

“ I have the information you wanted.” 

“About what, or whom?” 

“About George du Hamel.” 

“ Ah! and what is it?” 

“ It is not known what has become of 
him.” 

“Do you call that information?” 

“It is all I have been able to obtain.” 

“You did not apply where you ought.” 

“ Beg pardon, I knocked at the prefec- 
ture of police, and at the office of the 
Minister of the Interior.” 

“Did they tell you they didn’t know 
what had become of him?” 

“ Yes ; the ministry inquired, and wrote, 
and telegraphed, and ” 

“And?” 

“ The answer was that he was en I'up- 
ture de ban; that is to say ” 

“It is useless to explain, I know. 
What city or town had been designated 
or his residence?” 

“A city in the centre of France; I 
don’t know what one.” 

“Did he not appear there?” 

“ Never.” 

“And they have lost track of him?” 

“Entirely.” 

“ The police is very badly constituted,” 
said Cora. 

“ It is possible ; but George du Hamel 
is more capable than I thought, and I 
give him all my sympathy.” 

“Where do you think he is?” asked 
Cora. 

“ In Paris ; I return to my first thought 
on the subject. Paris is the best place 
for concealment.” 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


119 


“Would you know him if you met 
him?” 

“I dont think I should. I have seen 
him only twice : in court six years ago, 
and in prison at Toulon for five minutes, 
and then his hack was turned to me.” 

“If he is in Paris,” said Cora, after 
a short silence, “ I am sure of finding 
him.” 

“Bah! You never go out, and it is 
probable that he is not often in public.” 

“ Chance,” replied she, “will sooner or 
later bring about a meeting.” 

“So be it,” said Victor Mazilier. 


ix:. 

****** 

It was at Baden, a few leagues from 
Lake Zurich, near the charming river 
Limmat, that George Gérard and his wife 
stopped, after spending in Italy the win- 
ter following their marriage. 

Marcelle de Brives, for six months 
Madame Gérard, had proposed to her hus- 
band to return to France through Milan, 
Nice, and Marseilles, but George had dis- 
suaded her from taking this route. Al- 
ready, when the question was about 
going to Italy, he had refused to follow 
the course recommended by the Traveler’s 
Guide, and had made a considerable détour 
in order to avoid the South of France, 
which he said he did not like. 

But Marcelle had nothing to complain 
of for following the fancy of her hus- 
band. Never was a journey more charm- 
ing. They ran over all Italy, sojourned 
at Florence, Kome, and Naples during 
the winter, and set out in the spring for 
Northern Italy and Switzerland. They 
were gradually by easy stages on their 
way back to France, when, at Geneva, 
George found a letter in the post-office 
from his mother. 

“ You are happy, you tell me, as you 
have never been before, my dear child. 


That is one reason for keeping an in- 
cessant watch over your happiness. Italy 
and Switzerland have protected you till 
now, and have diverted you from every 
thought foreign to your love. Be not in 
haste to return to France. It is true that 
I long for the moment when I can throw 
myself into your arms, and snatch my- 
self from your embrace only to press to 
my heart her whom you love and who 
makes you happy ; but I am brave 
and can wait. Stay in the country 
where this letter shall find you. llemain 
there as long as possible. Of what use 
would it be to meet so soon face to face 
with each other? We cannot help speak- 
ing of a time which all our efibrts ought 
to tend, on the contrary, to obliterate 
from our life. If I did not accompany 
you, if I deprived myself of the happi- 
ness of being a witness of your joys, 
was it not from the fear that my presence 
might recall to you remembrances which 
might trouble those joys? Follow my 
counsels, my well-beloved son, my dear 
convalescent. Have you not profited by 
them for the last three years? Have I 
not well ordered your life? The marriage 
which you ardently desired and which 
your loyalty prevented you from con- 
tracting, was it not I who wished for it, 
and who said to you, ‘ I take the whole 
upon myself and absolve you in advance 
from what may happen’ ? You owe me 
obedience because I am your mother, and 
because I have suffered through you. I 
order you to be happy. You are so. I 
wish that you may be always happy, and 
I repeat it, be not in haste to return.” 

After reading and meditating upon 
this letter, George easily persuaded Mar- 
celle to pass the rest of the summer in 
Switzerland. They sought immediately 
an asylum where they might rest from 
their long journey. Chance led them to 
Baden, where they hired a small house on 
the bank of the river Limmat, and were 
perfectly happy. Ah, if Marcelle had 
written her life as formerly, what charm- 
ing things she would have said, in what 


120 


ARTICLE ^7. 


eloquent language her heart would have 
spoken ! 

Out of that young girl, somewhat af- 
fected and not very reasonable of course, 
on leaving the convent, love had made an 
unpretending and thoughtful woman and 
wife. How readily, then, would she have 
discarded certain passages of her me- 
moirs, in which there had at times es- 
caped from her pen, still full of convent 
ink, ill-sounding expressions and preten- 
tious phrases! But the happiness one 
feels is not easily described, and Marcelle 
thought no more about her journal. 

Great changes were also observed in 
George. He was no longer that grave 
and taciturn young man whose descrip- 
tion Marcelle had formerly given. He 
walked no more with bowed head and 
bended back. He seemed no longer ab- 
sent-minded, restless, and absorbed by a 
fixed idea. 

At thirty years of age he was again 
becoming gay, young, and ardent. One 
might have said thht he was just entering 
upon a life which he loved, for the first 
time. 

Summer was advancing, day followed 
day without anything disturbing the 
quietude of those two beings on whom 
everything in existence seemed to smile, 
and who lived in the present, forgetful of 
the past and without a care for the future. 

One day, however, after some conver- 
sation of little importance, a cloud came 
suddenly across their clear blue sky. 

Having been deprived for some time 
of any news from France, they had re- 
quested their landlord, who lived in a 
neighboring house, to procure them a 
French newspaper. He promised to do 
so, and handed to Marcelle, who was 
alone in the parlor at the time of his 
visit, a number of the Journal des Débats, 
received by a citizen of Baden. 

Whilst George, who had retired to his 
room, was writing to his mother, Marcelle 
ran her eye over the journal ; and when 
her husband rejoined her she presented it 
to him, saying, — 


Please look at this article on the third 
page.” 

George read these words : 

Court of Cassation^ Chambers united. 

President Ti'ojfong in the chair. 
Marriage contracted through mistake with 
a liberated convict. 

Request that it be nullified. 

“It is curious, is it not?” said Mar- 
celle, who could not account for the sud- 
den impression produced upon George, 
whose face was entirely hidden by the 
paper before him. 

He made no reply. 

“ What is the matter with you ?” said 
she. 

“ Me ? nothing,” said he. 

He folded the paper and was going to 
put it in his pocket, when Marcelle ex- 
claimed, — 

, “ But I have not finished ; I was scarcely 

beginning that article Oh, if you were 

accommodating, you would sit near me 
and read it to me. This trial interests 
me. Just think of it ! A young woman 
who learns suddenly, after several years 
of marriage, that her husband is or has 
been a galley-slave. It is frightful ! The 
details of this affair must be very curious, 
and I should like to know them. Come, 
don’t wait to be coaxed, come and sit by 
my side and read, unless you wish me to 
read it alone by myself.” 

“ No, no,” said he. 

“That’s it ; you prefer to suppress the 
tiresome passages in order to get through 
the sooner. That is your method. I 
thought when I got married that I had 
acquired the right to read everything. I 
was mistaken. My husband superintends 
my reading as formerly did Miss Dowson, 
and he is, alas ! still more crabbed than 
she. This is being married with a ven- 
geance.” 

While using this last expression, she 
had risen and rejoined her husband. She 
threw her arm about his neck and drew 
him gently to the sofa, where she had 
previously been sitting. 

When he was seated by her side, she 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


121 


took the paper from his hands, unfolded 
it, presented it to him, and, with a be- 
witching smile, said, — 

“ Read, I beg of you.” 

He read. 

The Journal des Débats devoted its 
third page entirely to a summary of this 
affair, in which public opinion had taken 
a deep interest, and which had been 
brought successively before the Court of 
Paris, which sustained the marriage, the 
Court of Cassation, which pronounced it 
null and void, the Court of Orleans, which 
crushed the decree of the Court of Cassa- 
tion, and finally the Court of Cassation, 
which rejected definitely the request that 
the marriage might be pronounced null 
and void. 

An advocate of great talent. Monsieur 
Trouillebert, undertook the defense of a 

Monsieur B , and maintained before 

the Imperial Court of Paris, and later be- 
fore the Court of Orleans, that there was 
no reason for breaking a marriage con- 
tracted with a liberated galley-slave. It 
was his plea, in which, while developing 
with great ability the question of law, 
the most important one in this affair, 
he succeeded in exhibiting his eloquence 
and attracting the attention of Marcelle. 
She requested her husband to read to her 
the most important passages, and he 
obeyed. 

With the help of Monsieur Trouillebert, 

George informed her what crime B 

had committed at the age of seventeen, 
that he was condemned to fifteen years 
of hard labor, and what was his conduct 
during his long confinement. When he had 

come to the passage concerning B ’s 

marriage, and the way in which it had 
been contracted, George wished to stop, 
but Marcelle insisted so hard that he was 
obliged to continue. 

He resumed his reading : 

“ To Monsieur B , said Monsieur 

Trouillebert, twenty-nine years of age, 
settled and industrious, it was quite natu- 
ral, I do not say that he should think of 
marrying, but that others should think of 


getting him married. His neighbors, who 
did not suspect the stigma that was upon 
him, proposed to him different matches, 
which he rejected. But they returned to 
the charge. They spoke to him of Made- 
moiselle X , and Madame X . 

They even went several times to his house. 
He still refuse'd, until the day when, in- 
fluenced by a feeling quite natural, or by 
an illusion, if you prefer it, he gave him- 
self up to dreams of happiness and love, 
which should have been forever forbid- 
den him. 

“ During the first part of November, 
1856, he wrote to the widow X a let- 

ter, in which he asked of her the hand of 
her daughter. The marriage took place. 
But it should be known that Monsieur 

B did nothing either to hinder these 

ladies from informing themselves, or for 
hastening the fulfillment of the marriage, 
and thereby precipitating them into the 
miscalculation they now complain of. 

“ In fact, during these four months of 
parleying, B , troubled as by a pre- 

sentiment, which, though unknown to 
himself, was nothing but the trouble of 
his conscience, had several times hesita- 
tions which might and ought to bring 
about a rupture of engagement. So once 
he suddenly discontinues his visits, and 
receives from widow X a letter ask- 

ing for a conference. Another time, later, 
the day of marriage approaches, and the 
ceremony is fixed for the 23d of February. 
Letters of invitation are sent out. Mon- 
sieur B , under some pretext, fails to 

be present. They supplicate him again, 
and the ceremony is definitely fixed for 
the 11th of March. 

“ Surely, gentlemen, it had been better 
to listen to the presentiment which trou- 
bled him. 

“ Scarcely was he married, when a 
man whom he knew in prison threatens 
to reveal everything to his wife if he 
does not satisfy his demand for money ; 
and as he wishes to avoid these exigen- 
cies, he reveals too tardily, alas ! for all 
concerned, the fatal truth. 


122 


ARTICLE Iff, 


“ Such were, gentlemen, since he left the 

prison, the life of Monsieur B , and 

the facts which preceded the marriage. 

“But his silence, and the secret which 
he- kept ! 

“ That is true, it is horrible ! There can- 
not be, in honest minds, two opinions in 
the matter. 

“Yes, I am one of those who think 
that he who is seeking for a young per- 
son in marriage ought himself to reveal 
to the family of the latter what he is, 
and what he has been, were he, if he has 
anything to keep back, to condemn him- 
self by giving up the happiness which he 
had dreamed of. But these conscien- 
tious scruples, without which one is never, 
I will not say an honest man, but a good 
man, cannot and should not be interfered 
with by the legislator. The moral law 
alone can penetrate the depths of the con- 
science, and it is in this that the hon- 
esty which has such scruples is superior 
to that which appeals only to written 
laws.” 

George’s voice appeared tired and 
changed, and so he stopped reading. 

Marcelle said to him, — 

“ That pleading is very fine ; while de- 
fending the case of his client, B ’s ad- 

vocate judges his conduct and condemns 
it.” 

“ So,” said George, after a moment’s 
silence, “ there is no indulgence in your 
heart for that unfortunate man?” 

“ All the indulgence that I might have 
felt for the man of whom you speak dis- 
appears from the moment that he had not 
the courage to avow his position. I am of 
the same opinion as his attorney. One 
has no right to deceive her whom he 
marries, who confides to him her destiny, 
and who is to bear his name.” > 

“If he had told the truth,” said 
George, “the marriage would not have 
taken place.” 

“And what of that? he would have 
done his duty.” 

“ And suppose that he loved her?” 

“ He should have sacrificed his love.” 


“And if he was loved by her?” added 
George. 

“One of two things,” responded Mar- 
celle: “ either on learning the past of him 
whom she was going to marry, she ceased 
to love him and was no longer to be 
pitied ; or her love resisted the unfore- 
seen blow, and she had no longer any re- 
proaches to make. She accepted the des- 
tiny of her husband, and bore with him 
all the consequences of his conduct.” 

“Your reasoning is good,” said he; 
“ and yet one might easily reply to what 
you have said. There are often fatal cir- 
cumstances, absolute impossibilities, in 
the way of avowing the truth. The very 
existence of two persons may sometimes 
be at stake. In order to pass an infalli- 
ble judgment, one must be enlightened 
upon many details and numerous particu- 
larities. Can one ever read to the very 
bottom of people’s conscience?” 

After a moment’s silence he con- 
tinued, — 

“ Then you admit that love may resist 
a confidence like that of which we are 
speaking ?” 

She reflected and answered, — 

“ Yes, I admit it, if the crime was not 
so odious that it must excite lasting in- 
dignation, if the expiation has been com- 
plete and the repentance sincere.” 

It was easy to see that this conversa- 
tion had made an impression upon 
George. For two or three days he felt it, 
and his moodiness of bygone time re- 
turned upon him. But he could not 
resist the good humor and charming 
gayety of Marcelle. Soon she regained 
all her influence over him, and he thought 
only on loving her. 


Xl. 

Autumn had succeeded the summer, 
and they were so perfectly happy in their 
little Baden hermitage, that they thought 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


123 


not of leaving it. But two letters sud- 
denly came which induced them to de- 
part. 

The first was from Miss Dowson, call- 
ing upon them for assistance ; saying, if 
they did not come, she would be obliged 
to quit the house in Léonia Street, where 
she had seen the mother of Marcelle, her 
best and only friend, breathe her last. 

Her position, said she, was no longer 
endurable. Under the pretext that he 
had become a single man, that his daugh- 
ter no longer lived in the house, and 
would go, on her return, to occupy the 
pavilion at the end of the court with her 
husband. Monsieur De Drives, said Miss 
Dowson, was in the habit of receiving 
company of the most shocking character. 
That was the expression she used and 
was in the habit of using ; the poor, dear 
woman knew no other for expressing her 
opinion. 

So long as Monsieur De Drives was 
satisfied with returning home every 
morning at five or six o’clock, she said 
nothing. That was none of her business. 
But now he remained at home some- 
times, received his friends, and gave a 
gambling-party. 

“Yes, he dares,” exclaimed the indig- 
nant Miss Dowson, — “ he dares to give 
a gambling-party in the very drawing- 
room where Madame De Drives used to 
sit so often, and which was recently ani- 
mated by the presence of Marcelle ! If 
he would receive only his friends ! but, — 
ah ! I hardly dare say it, I am so shocked, 
— at his last soirée I saw, yes, with my 
own eyes, I saw a woman, with her 
veil on, alight from a carriage and enter 
our house. A woman, gracious good- 
ness ! in company with all those men ! 
ah! shocking, very shocking !" 

George and Marcelle did not seem to be 
so much shocked as Miss Dowson at the 
conduct of Monsieur De Drives. His 
passion for gambling was well known to 
them, and they had often deplored it ; but 
it no longer affected them as formerly, as 
they had come to the conclusion it was of 


no use to trouble themselves about it. As 
to showing hospitality to his friends, for 
a single time, perhaps, instead of going 
to their houses, there was no harm in that. 
Gamblers are not a noisy class, who carry 
disorder into a house and disturb the 
neighbors. They whom Monsieur De 
Drives admitted to his house were un- 
questionably persons of respectability. 
But there was the veiled woman. She 
might be a woman of the world. In our 
day these women allow themselves so 
many eccentricities ! At all events, 
Monsieur De Drives was a widower, and 
it could not be regarded as criminal in 
him to receive, before witnesses, a visit 
more or less mysterious, during the ab 
sence of his daughter. 

“I am decidedly of opinion,” said 
Marcelle, “ that the scruples of Miss 
Dowson, respectable as they are, should 
not hasten our return to Paris. I think 
it necessary only in one point of view : 
my father has still, perhaps, some debts 
which trouble him ; and I should like to 
place at his disposal, as I promised him, 
that part of my dowry which you were 
so kind as to abandon to me, my dear 
George.” 

“No,” said he, smiling. 

“ How is that?” 

“ I consented to make this sacrifice, only 
on condition it should be complete.” 

“ What do you mean?” 

“ I mean that I never want to hear 
your dowry spoken of ; I mean that my 
little fortune would be sufficient for us, 
and that your father should dispose, not 
of the whole capital, but of the half of 
that capital. The other half shall be 
converted into income coupons, which 
he shall not sell, but from which he shall 
receive a revenue.” 

“Can I accept the proposition?” said 
she. 

“ You ought to.” 

“ Are you in earnest ?” 

“ It would grieve me if you should not.” 

“ Then I hesitate no longer,” replied 
she, rushing into his arms. “ I am happy 


124 


ARTICLE Jf[. 


to hold everything from you. Now it 
remains only to persuade my father to 
accept the proposal. He will be more 
difficult to deal with than I have been. 
But with proper delicacy and persever- 
ance we shall succeed. I rely upon you 
to second me, my dear husband.” 

The second letter was calculated to 
make a greater impression on their minds 
and influence them to return immediately 
to France. It was from Monsieur Be 
Brives. He told them that he thought 
Madame Gérard a sick woman. She kept 
herself out of his sight when he called to 
see her, doubtless that he might not recall 
his children and disturb their happiness. 
But he was persuaded that her condition, 
without being alarming, demanded atten- 
tions that George and Marcelle could alone 
administer. 

They left Baden in the first part of 
October, during a beautiful sunset, often 
turning round to view for the last time 
the house where they had been so happy. 
And when it had entirely disappeared and 
they heard no longer the tumultuous 
waves of the river Limmat, a sort of in- 
definite sadness took possession of them. 

For a moment they asked themselves 
in secret, without daring to impart their 
thoughts to each other, if they were not 
leaving in that dear country the best part 
of themselves, — if their happiness could 
be as complete as it had been, — if it were 
not going to vanish, as vanished in the 
horizon, behind the tall pine woods, the 
last rays of the sun. 

But they looked at each other, smiled, 
and soon banished these sad thoughts 
from their minds. 


XI. 

They congratulated themselves upon 
their return. Madame Gérard was suffer- 
ing, as Monsieur Be Brives had informed 
them. But the return of George and 
Marcelle, the care with which they sur- 


rounded her, the joy she felt on seeing her 
son happy and without fears in regard to 
the future, soon restored her to health. 

Buring the absence of her children, and 
in anticipation of their return, she had 
taken pleasure in preparing for them an 
apartment in the pavilion which she occu- 
pied. 

“ You will be so well pleased at home,” 
said she to her son, “ that you will never 
wish to go out.” 

“ If that depended on me, dear mother, 
I should not often be seen in Paris. Be- 
tween you and Marcelle, in the charming 
paradise you have made for us, I should 
be the happiest of men. But if my wife 
wishes to take a walk, or to go to the 
theatre, what can I say?” 

“ I don’t know ; but I beg of you to 
avoid showing yourself in public as much 
as possible.” 

“You are always troubled with fears.” 

“ If I were entirely without them I 
should be the happiest of women.” 

“ Buring my journey abroad you had 
nothing to fear, and yet you were sick.” 

“ I had not seen you for so long !” said 
she, embracing him. “ Bear child, I live 
only through you and for you.” 

“ Bear mother, you love me in propor- 
tion to what I have made you suffer.” 

“No, no, let us talk no more of my 
sufferings. I have forgotten them.” 

Still troubled by the same thought, after 
a moment’s silence she continued, — 

“Next spring it will be necessary to 
start again for some retired, unknown, 
distant, very distant country outside of 
France. But this time I shall accompany 
you both, and we will arrange no more 
to return. Are you willing?” 

“ Am I willing?” 

“Very well. Be prudent during the win- 
ter ; I ask it of you as a favor 5 and especi- 
ally do not be troubled too much on ac- 
count of my fears. I rejoice so much to 
see that you think no more of the past.” 

“Ah !” said he, “ how could I think of 
it ? The present is so charming, and the 
future so lavish of its promises.” 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


125 


XIIZ. 

The veiled woman, whose presence at 
Monsieur De Drives had so much offended 
Miss Dowson, was no other than Cora. 
For two years her intimacy with Monsieur 
De Mézin had increased. These two natures 
were in sympathy. Cora took pleasure 
in rendering to her guest a thousand little 
services, valuable to an unmarried man, 
who lived alone and had no family. 

By way of requital. Monsieur De Mézin 
used to visit her frequently in the day- 
time, when Victor Mazilier, after his 
laborious nights, as he called them, was 
indulging in a recuperative sleep. lie 
did not fear to take a walk with her some- 
times, and to send her his carriage, in 
which he took a seat by her side. But 
she was especially flattered by the pains 
he took to make her believe that her 
scars were scarcely visible, and that, at 
all events, she was so beautiful that she 
could dispense with being pretty. 

In order to please and thank her for 
her attentions, he had recourse, very 
nearly, to the seductive language formerly 
employed by Victor, and now neglected 
by the latter, who was beginning to be 
tired of her whose fortune he had made, 
and who had contributed to his. 

Monsieur De Mézin was perhaps sin- 
cere in complimenting Cora. Physically, 
she was more accomplished than she had 
ever been. The nine years which had 
elapsed since her arrival in France had, 
in some way, completed and rendered her 
perfect. Her shoulders, arms, waist, and 
figure generally were more admirable 
than ever, and she might have served as 
a model for a sculptor. 

One day he took her to the races. Cora, 
who, for good reasons, did not like to 
appear in broad daylight, had never 
attended this kind of show. Covered 
with a thick veil, and sitting in the back 
part of De Mézin’s carriage, she took 
great pleasure in seeing without being 
seen. She wished to have a taste of the 
pleasures connected with the turf, and to 


enjoy the emotions of a bet. Monsieur 
De Mézin bet on a favorite horse ; she 
took the field against him and won. 
When, on their return, he was desirous 
of paying what he had lost, she said to 
him, — 

“I am a little tired of passing all my 
evenings at home, and of receiving every 
day without being received. I ask in pay- 
ment of what you have lost, that you 
organize a party at your house, to which 
all our friends shall be invited.” 

“I see in your suggestion but one dif- 
ficulty,” replied Monsieur De Mézin : 
“ my apartment is one of the smallest, 
and our friends will never find room 
enough in it.” 

“We will not invite everybody.” 

“ You will thereby make enemies, and 
I would not advise it. I ” 

“ Pardon me, you have no voice in the 
matter ; you are at my discretion.” 

“ I do not refuse to give the party, but 
I propose that it be at Provençaux.” 

“ No, no ; it would no longer have the 
character of intimacy. Try again.” 

“ I have got it,” said he, suddenly. 

“What?” 

“ I invite you to pass the evening at 
Monsieur De Drives’ s. His daughter is on 
a journey, he lives alone, is admirably 
well situated, and will not refuse to lend 
me his apartment, especially when he 
learns that the object is to pay you a 
compliment.” 

“ That is understood then,” said Cora. 
“ Fix the day, and above all, don’t forget 
that gambling debts are to be paid within 
twenty-four hours. If you are embar- 
rassed, I will give you a week. That is 
all I can do for you.” 

It was after this conversation that Miss 
Dowson saw, one evening, a veiled 
woman in Monsieur DeBrives’s drawing- 
room, and wrote to George and Marcelle 
that there was trouble brewing. 


126 


ARTICLE ^7. 


2CIZX. 

This party, which was very well organ- 
ized, and ended with one of the most 
cheerful suppers imaginable, made upon 
Cora an excellent impression. 

A single glance of the eye was suffi- 
cient for her, when she entered Monsieur 
De Drives’ s house, to discover that a wife 
had presided over the arrangement of his 
dwelling, and that if he was unmarried 
he had not always been so. 

This apartment was, so to speak, still 
impregnated with the presence of Ma- 
dame De Drives and her daughter. They 
had given it their seal, — they had left in< 
every part of it the impress of their so- 
journ, — they had diffused over it and 
through it a perfume of grace and honor. 

These details, not appreciable by all 
persons, could not escape Cora -, they ex- 
cited her interest, her curiosity, and pro- 
cured for her new sensations. 

Was it not the first time in her life, 
perhaps, that she enjoyed the pleasure of 
penetrating the interior existence of fash- 
ionable women, of accounting for their 
habits, and of being in indirect contact 
with them ? She felt the emotions expe- 
rienced by an honorable woman, though 
in a contrary sense, whom chance, or curi- 
osity, may take into the apartment in- 
habited by a woman of an opposite char- 
acter. Everything astonishes, interests, 
and excites her ; she has blushes and 
shudders which she cannot explain. She 
would flee, but cannot decide to do it. 

Three or four months after this party, 
Cora manifested a desire that a new one 
should be given her, and applied to her 
friend Monsieur De Mézin. 

“When will you offer me,” said she, 
“an opportunity to win another bet?” 

“When you please. Put me down 
already your debtor, and give your or- 
ders.” 

“They shall have nothing terrible in 
them. I ask for a second edition of the 
party that took place at the house of 
Monsieur De Drives.” 


“ Dut it cannot again take place at his 
house, my dear friend.” 

“Why, pray?” 

“Ilis daughter has returned.” 

“Ah! she comes to live with her 
father?” 

“No; she is married, and the apart- 
ment of Monsieur De Drives is not large 
enough for the young household.” 

“Then what?” 

“ She inhabits the same premises, and 
Monsieur De Drives worships his family, 
or rather, he has a perfect adoration for 
his daughter.” 

“Is she pretty?” 

“More than pretty, she is charming! 
well proportioned every way, with the 
feet and hands of a child, like ” 

“ Her face is not like mine, fortunately 
for her.” 

“No accident has happened to her, I 
acknowledge.” 

“Finish her portrait. Of what color 
are her eyes?” 

“Dlue.” 

“ She holds them always cast down, 
probably.” 

“ She has an assured, frank, and honest 
look.” 

“Has she a small mouth?” 

“Neither small nor large. She has 
vermilion lips and perfectly white and 
regular teeth.” 

“How does she dress?” 

“With great simplicity. She follows 
the fashion only approximately, just 
enough not to appear odd or ridiculous.” 

“ I should like to get a glimpse of that 
marvel. Where is she to be met with? 
Does she go to the races or the theatre?” 

“Never. I offered a box yesterday to 
Monsieur De Drives for the Italian the- 
atre; but after consulting his daughter 
he refused it. She prefers, it seems, to 
pass her evenings at home.” 

“With her husband?” 

“Probably.” 

“ Is it a love match?” 

“They say so.” 

“What is her husband’s name?” 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


127 


‘^George Gérard.” 

“Hold!” said Cora. 

“Do you know him?” 

“Not at all. It was the little name 
George, which I was not expecting, that 
occasioned my surprise. Is this husband 
so charming that Madame Gérard refuses 
a box at the Italians in order to pass her 
evenings with him? Is he young?” 

“Thirty to thirty-five.” 

“ Handsome?” 

“Yes; good looking, tall, strong, and 
well built.” 

“A fine head?” 

“ An expressive head with very hand- 
some eyes.” 

“ Is he rich?” 

“ He is said to be in easy circumstan- 
ces.” 

“What does he do?” 

“Nothing, I believe. He led, before 
marriage, a very retired life, and almost 
mysterious.” 

“Ah!” 

“ What is the matter with you ?” 

“ Nothing. I am foolish. How did 
Mademoiselle De Drives become ac- 
quainted with him, if he lived so re- 
tired?” 

“ He lived with his mother on the same 
premises.” 

“With his mother, do you say?” 

“Yes. What is there astonishing in 
that? More than one son before his mar- 
riage lives with his mother.” 

“No doubt; but you misunderstood 
the meaning of my interruption. Go on, 
my dear friend. Your young man lived, 
then, in the house of Mademoiselle De 
Drives? He saw her from his window, 
and, as in novels, fell in love with 
her.” 

“ If I understood rightly certain phrases 
that escaped formerly from Monsieur De 
Drives, and from a physician of our 
friend, Paul Combes, it was Mademoi- 
selle De Drives who fell in love first.” 

“Just think of that! those discreet and 
prudent young girls !” 

“ They have a heart like others. It is ' 


a beating heart; but they know when 
and how to control its throbs.” 

“ They must be guessed at, then ; and it 
seems that Gérard did so?” 

“ Rather tardily, it appears. I thought 
at the time that he was not very desirous 
of getting married. He made many ob- 
jections to it. In fine, the marriage was 
for a long time put off.” 

“ If Mademoiselle De Drives was in 
love, he was not.” 

“ At all events, I can assure you that 
he is now. I met him day before yester- 
day at Monsieur De Drives, on a visit with 
his wife, and was struck with the change 
that has taken place within a year. I 
had seen him two or three times before 
his marriage, when he appeared melan- 
choly, dejected, and restless.” 

“ Ah ! he looked restless?” 

“ He is now cheerful, and full of good 
humor. Yes, he has the appearance of 
being really in love.” 

“ Enough so to make others think of 
being so, eh, my dear De Mézin? Why 
are you not?” 

“ Dut, my dear Cora ” 

“ Yes, yes, I know,” said she, interrupt- 
ing him, “ you are going to tell me that 
you are in love with me. It is of no use, 

I don’t believe you. It would not be 
natural. Dut, being received as you were, 
at all hours, at Monsieur De Drives’s, and 
on good terms with his daughter, whose 
good qualities you perfectly appreciated, 

I am astonished that you ” 

“ That I didn’t love her. How do you 
know but I did?” 

“ Did you though, truly ?” 

“ Mon Dieu! yes, I may as well tell you 
my secrets ; I asked for Mademoiselle De 
Drives in marriage.” 

“ Ah ! and she did not consent ?” 

“ You see how it is.” 

“What motive had she for refusing?” 

“ She accused me of being a gambler.” 

“ That young girl is very intelligent. 
Dut how has she such an aversion to 
gambling? Generally, at her age, people 
do not know the evils of this passion.” 


128 


ARTICLE ^7. 


“ You forget that her father is as much 
of a gambler as I, if not more so ; and 
that Madame De Drives has suffered a great 
deal from the neglect consequent upon 
her husband’s entire devotion to this little 
vice.” 

“I understand it. The mother has 
been talking to the daughter ; and the 
latter, having learned your character, has 
rejected your offer. Poor De Mézin ! I 
pity you, if the young girl is as captivat- 
ing as you represent her. You have in- 
spired me with a desire of seeing this 
interesting couple. I must consider what 
is best to do.” 


The conversation she had just had with 
De Mézin made at first a certain impres- 
sion upon Cora. The name George, the de- 
scription which seemed to accord with 
that of George du Hamel, the mysterious, 
retired life, and a thousand other details, 
returned incessantly to her mind, and 
plunged her into endless reveries. 

By degrees, however, this impression 
disappeared. Was it admissible that 
George Gérard was no other than George 
du Hamel ? Could Mademoiselle De Dri- 
ves have married a liberated convict? 
And would that man, liable to be arrested 
and returned to prison, because he had 
broken his pledge to government and 
was under surveillance, would he have 
dared to come to live in Paris ? 

She was evidently the plaything of 
her too vivid imagination. Her desire to 
find George again, and the hatred that he 
inspired, prepared her to see him every- 
where, and she became ridiculous by dint 
of being suspicious. 

When she was alone with Victor Ma- 
zilier, the next day after De Mézin’s visit, 
she was the first to laugh at herself. 

“ Would you imagine,” said she, “ that 


I imagined I was on the track of your 
enemy ?” 

“ AVhat enemy ?” 

“Your liberated galley-slave.” 

“Ah, yes; I had forgotten him, the 
brave fellow I Have you met him ? is he 
getting on well?” 

“You are a fool, or crazy. If I had 
met him, do you suppose I should talk 
with you so calmly ?” 

“Why not? He has become quite in- 
different to me. That is an old story, my 
dear. Just think, it is nearly nine years 
old.” 

“ It seems to me that it is but of yes- 
terday.” 

“ That is your way of rejuvenating.” 

“ Oh, I aDi not along far enough to 
need that process yet.” 

“ But we are growing old, my beautiful 
friend. I have just reached my thirty- 
three years, and that begins to tell. And 
just think of it, my father is still wait- 
ing for me at Havre in his office. I pro- 
pose to go and see him one of these days, 
the poor, dear man. The love of my family 
has been uppermost in me for some time. 
The moment has perhaps come for me to 
repose in its bosom.” 

“ Yes, I perceive the change which has 
taken place in you.” 

“ No 'feeling is eternal in this world, my 
dear friend.” 

“ I beg your pardon, I know of one.” 

“ Ah, yes : that which you feel for your 
galley-slave. W ell, you said you thought 
you were upon his track.” 

“ Yes, for a moment. But I very soon 
discovered my error. I thought I had 
found him in the son-in-law of Monsieur 
De Drives.” 

“ In the son-in-law of Ah ! she is a 

very worthy young woman. But how 
could dear Monsieur De Drives, who is 
so proud of his birth and his name, think 

of giving his daughter to a 1 shall 

laugh about it as long as I live.” 

“ I do not say that it is so.” 

“It is a pity, it is really a pity ! What 
made you think that might be so?” 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


129 


“A description given me of Mademoi- j 
selle De Brives’s husband, which resem- 
bled very closely that of George du 
Hamel.” 

“Well, perhaps it is he. Had I not 
told you that he would come to live in 
Paris? I was sure of it. Paris, you un- 
derstand, is like an old mistress, one does 
not know how' to leave her. AVhat more 
natural than that George du Hamel, living 
in Paris, should fall in love with a mar- 
riageable young woman? He probably 
concealed his past life, deceived the family, 

and this bit of romance pleases me 

hugely ; I am delighted with it.” 

“ It is only a romance,” said Cora. 

“Oh, in our day,” replied Victor, “ro- 
mances are histories. If I were in your 
place, I would not remain a moment in 
doubt. I w'ould know this very day what 
to depend upon. Ah, that dear De Drives !” 

“ It is all folly, nonsense, I tell you I 
and I am sorry to have had you share my 
ridiculous ideas. At all events, not a 
word of all this; you understand?” 

“ Of course not. I am not desirous of 
learning how well De Brives can handle 
a sword. One is not safe when he med- 
dles with family matters. And besides, 
dear friend, I thought I had proved to you 
how well I could keep a secret.” 

“Well, I beg your pardon.” 

Cora had thought that Victor Mazilier 
ridiculed the suspicions that had crossed 
her mind, but, on the contrary, he shared 
them with her. He went even farther 
than she. He admitted as probalde that 
George du Hamel and George Gérard 
were one and the same person, and ad- 
vised her to make sure of it. Why should 
she remain any longer in a state of incer- 
titude when it was so easy to know the 
truth ? 

In spite of his retired life, George 
Gérard must go out from time to time. 
What more simple than to stop in a car- 
riage before his residence, and to wait for 
him on his passage ? Was she not quite 
sure of recognizing him? Ah, she had 
not forgotten his features, so clearly de- 
9 ^ 


j fined. She had him constantly before her 
as he appeared at Toulon in his prison- 
dress and with the mallet in his hand. 
His calm and firm attitude, his haughty 
look and brief speech, had been engraved 
in her mind and could not be effaced. 

In spite of the change that must have 
been effected in the person of George, and 
the new clothes he might have on, would 
not a glance of her eye be sufficient to 
enable her to say, it is he ! it is he? 

She rang for her chambermaid, had 
brought her what was necessary in order 
to go out, and ordered a carriage. 

In passing from the Neuilly Avenue to 
Léonia Street, all her doubts returned. 

“ What I am going to do is absurd,” said 
she to herself ; “ for I am going to wait in 
the street, in a carriage, like a police 
agent, a jealous husband, or a woman in 
love. And to wait for whom? For an 
unknown man, when it is a hundred to 
one that he does not resemble in the least 
him whom I am in pursuit of. To wait 
for him all day perhaps without his com- 
ing out.” 

All at once she said to herself, — 

“ Why should I not go to Monsieur De 
Brives’s ? My visit is a very natural one. 
I could say I was passing before his door 
and wished to shake hands with him. I 
didn’t know his daughter had returned ; 
and in any case, a man, whatever be his 
position, may receive in open day a woman 
of becoming external appearance.” 

Soon the carriage stopped in Léonia 
Street. ^ Cora had pointed out to her the 
story occupied by Monsieur De Brives, 
and rang at his door. 

“ Monsieur has gone out,” said the 
servant who answered the bell. 

“ If madame wishes to see Miss Dow- 
son ” 

“ It is of no consequence,” replied Cora, 
without thinking of the anger she might 
have aroused had she accepted the invita- 
tion of the domestic. “ At what o’clock 
do you think Monsieur De Brives will 
return ?” 

“ Monsieur will not be gone long. He 


130 


ARTICLE J^r. 


went out a few minutes with his son-in- 
law and his daughter.” 

“ I will call again,” said she as she 
went away. She entered her carriage 
and ordered the coachman to stop at the 
corner of Léonia Street and Gaillard. 

From this point she could not fail of 
seeing return those whom she was wait- 
ing for. 

The young man who accompanied 
Monsieur De Drives and daughter was of 
course George Gérard, since, as the do- 
mestic said, he went out with them. 

About fifty minutes elapsed, when, 
about five in the afternoon, three persons 
appeared at the corner of Léonia Street. 
The first was Monsieur De Drives, who 
had on his arm a very beautiful woman 
who was evidently his daughter. 

Cora’s eyes were immediately turned 
towards the third person, who was walk- 
ing by the side of the young woman and 
at this moment talking with her. He 
was a man of about thirty-five years of 
age, plainly but elegantly dressed, with 
a distinguished air and a most intelligent 
countenance. 

Dut it was not George du Hamel. 


Thus Cora had been mistaken, and in 
a moment her suspicions had vanished. 
There was no resemblance between George 
Gérard and George du Hamel? 

She gave orders to her coachman to 
return to Neuilly Avenue. 

On her way she reproached herself for 
having paid any regard to the remarks of 
Victor Mazilier. The intelligence of her 
old adviser was visibly diminishing. 
Gambling had taken away a part of his 
faculties. She found in him no longer 
the qualities which had formerly attracted 
her. He had becomo stupid morally and 
physically. 

How could he ever have pleased her. 


and how could she prefer him to George 
du Hamel? 

She took pleasure in placing them both 
before her for a picture. The one was 
short, plump, and of a sickly paleness 5 
the other tall, but not too tall, sinewy, and 
pale, after the oriental style. Sleepless 
nights at a gambler’s table had changed 
the features of the one, by reddening his 
eyes, removing his hair, and bloating his 
face. A regular life had perfected the 
beauty of the other, and given to his eyes 
greater clearness, and to his features more 
of the noble. 

Having analyzed them physically, she 
compared them morally. In the one was 
a conventional spirit, drawn from all 
sources, such as cunning, audacity, and 
the like; in the other, a regular educa- 
tion and superior intellect. The one cun- 
ning and cowardly, seeking protection 
from the guard in their visit to Toulon ; 
the other, resolute, brave even to rashness 
on a thousand occasions, and at the time 
of his duel at New Orleans with John 

de D . On the one hand a petit 

monsieur, on the other a man. 

After indulging in this analysis and 
astonishing herself with her retrospective 
preferences for him whom she had for- 
merly misunderstood and abused, she 
reviewed in thought that charming young 
woman who had passed before her, giving 
her arm to Monsieur De Drives. There 
you see what they call a fashionable 
and honorable woman. She could go out 
in open day, escorted by her husband and 
father, saluted respectfully by all who 
knew her, simple in her dress and man- 
ners, worthy, happy, and smiling. 

“What a distance separates me from 
that woman !” said she. “ I fled from New 
Orleans through self-love and pride, be- 
cause there was too broad a line of demark- 
ation between white and colored women. 
Ah ! there is in Europe a much greater 
one between some women and others.” 

She could not help envying also the 
beauty, gracefulness, and exquisite dis- 
tinction of Madame Gérard. A glance was 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


131 


sufficient to enable her to account for all 
her physical qualities, and to admire 
those vermilion lips, that perfect nose, 
those large blue eyes, deep and mild, be- 
neath black eyebrows, which imparted to 
her face an originality and extraordinary 
charm. 

And, as she had just been comparing 
Victor Mazilier with George du Hamel, 
she now compared herself with the daugh- 
ter of Monsieur De Drives. People would 
stop to contemplate the one, but would 
turn aside in order not to look at the 
other. 

Nevertheless, she herself had been 
handsome, and it required only a fit of 
anger and a pistol-shot At this mo- 

ment she detested more thoroughly than 
ever George du Hamel, and it was fortunate 
for him that he was not the husband of 
that beautiful wife. 

“ Ah !” said she to herself, “ if my sus- 
picions instead of vanishing had been 
strengthened, if I had recognized him by 
her side, how I could have avenged my- 
self!” 

Gently rocked by her carriage, she was 
voluptuously enjoying her fancied re- 
venge, when she was awakened to reality 
by the carriage suddenly stopping at the 
Hôtel Neuilly. 

In the evening, when her regular 
guests arrived, she had recovered her 
self-possession, and did the honors of her 
drawing-room with her usual grace. 

Towards midnight, or a little past. 
Monsieur De Drives made her a call. 

“ You come late this evening,” said 
she. 

“ I have been acting as father of the 
family,” replied he, with a smile, “and 
have taken my daughter and son-in-law 
to the French theatre.” 

After this explanation, as he was look- 
ing around for a seat at the gambling- 
table, she retained him by these words, — 

“ Have you not been a little puzzled 
to-day ?” 

“ Dy whom ?” 

“You didn’t ask who that veiled, mys- 


terious lady was, who rang at your door 
during your absence, and refused to tell 
her name ?” 

“ AVas that you ?” 

“ It was 1 myself. You had not 
guessed ?” 

“ Not at all. I confess, indeed, that 
I was a little puzzled for a moment. 
AY as it really you ? I am very sorry, 
then, that I was not at home. Had you 
anything to tell me ?” 

“ A small favor to ask of you.” 

“ Speak, dear friend,” said De Drives, 
taking a seat by the side of Cora. 

“ It is too late,” said she ; “ I could not 
wait, and the favor has been rendered. 
It shall be for another time.” 

“From this time,” replied Monsieur 
De Drives, gallantly, “ I will not leave 
my house, for fear of being absent when 
you call.” 

“ Then,” said she, smiling, “ I have 
been guilty of no indiscretion in ventur- 
ing to call on you ?” 

“ Not the least in the world. How 
could you ?” 

“ I learn through Monsieur De Mézin 
that your daughter has returned.” 

“ My daughter does not liVe with me ; 
besides, my dear friend, I am of an age 
to receive whom I please. Alas -” 

“ Dut I am inexcusable.” 

“ How so ?” 

“AYould you believe that I was cross- 
ing the threshold of your door to enter my 
carriage when I saw you returning?” 

“ And you did not wait for me ?” 

“ You were not alone ; you had your 
daughter on your arm, and I did not dare. 
Dy the way, my friend, I must compli- 
ment you. I understand that you adore 
her. She is charming !” 

“ Isn’t she ?” 

“ And so is her husband !” * 

“ Did you see him ?” 

“ Of course; wasn’t he walking by her 
side ?” 

“ Oh, that was not he.” 

“ Do you say ” 

“ I say that my son-in-law did not ac- 


132 


article: if(. 


company us when we returned; it was 
one of our friends, a tenant of mine, 
Doctor Combes, whom you know by 
name.” 

“Ah! It was Doctor Combes.” 

“I had gone out with Gérard and my 
daughter to see some horses for sale in 
Pigalle Street, and on returning we met 
the doctor at the corner of Léonia Street. 
He told us he had just received a box for 
the French theatre and that he should 
be put out with us if we didn’t accept it. 
We did accept, and while returning with 
Combes, my son-in-law left us for a mo- 
ment to read some posters on Bruyère 
Street. It was thus, my dear friend, 
that you were permitted to contemplate 
the features of that dear doctor instead 
of the face of my son-in-law.” 

“ The whole is explained,” said Cora, 
having become absent-minded for a mo- 
ment. And as Monsieur De Drives could 
not stop any longer, and was taking leave 
of her to join the gamblers, she said, — 

“I have been thinking. It is possible 
that I may have recourse to you for the 
service in question. If I decide, at what 
o’clock shall I find you to-morrow?” 

“ I told you I should not go out any 
more,” said he. 


XVI. 

The next day, at two in the afternoon, 
Cora presented herself at Monsieur De 
Drives’ s. She was immediately introduced 
into his office. After talking with him 
about the service or favor she expected 
from him,— for she had been obliged to 
find a pretext for explaining her visit an- 
nounced the night before — she said, on 
rising, — 

“ Do you know, my dear De Drives, 
that your house makes a splendid appear- 
ance? I understand why you have not 
been willing to come and reside in my 
direction. How much does it bring you 
in?” 


“ Some twenty thousand francs.” 

“ Is that all ?” 

“ I have very few tenants. The rents 
of Doctor Combes and Madame Gérard 
are the most considerable.” 

“ Madame Gérard? Is she not the mo- 
ther of your son-in-law?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ She inhabits the little pavilion at the 
end of the court, which appeared to me 
so delightful. It is a real retreat, and 
one might there think he was in the 
country.” 

“It lacks only cows,” said De Drives, 
smiling. 

“ It is easy to supply them,” said Cora. 
“Where, pray, did you find those gi- 
gantic ivies which cover the walls, and 
also those rare plants ? I am in pursuit 
of some for my little hotel at Neuilly.” 

“ My son-in-law only can inform you. 
It was he who superintended all this ar- 
rangement.” 

“ But he is never seen ; how, then, can 
I apply to him? According to what I 
hear, he is a veritable savage.” 

“ He is somewhat so, or has been ; but 
now he is simply a happy man.” 

“ Indeed ! Are there any happy peo- 
ple, entirely happy ? I would like to touch 
the hem of their garment. That must 
bring happiness.” ^ 

“I cannot,” said De Drives, “cry out 
of this window to my son-in-law and 
say, ‘ Cross over the court and come to 
my house. I am here with a lady who 
would like to touch the hem of your gar- 
ment.’ But if you think, my dear Cora, 
that a glance thrown upon that man may 
render fortune favorable to you, let us 
pass into my smoking-room. It gives a 
view of the court, and you can at your 
leisure contemplate the little pavilion, the 
object of your admiration, and probably 
him who inhabits it.” 

“ Let us go into the smoking-room. 
But pray give me an opera-glass, for here, 
as in an imperial museum, one is per- 
mitted to look and forbidden to touch.” 

In order to reach the smoking-room 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


]33 


they had to pass through the anteroom, 
where they fell in with Miss Dowson. 
Upon seeing Cora, the dear woman drew 
back affrighted. • 

“Who is that woman we have just 
met?” asked Cora, when she was in- 
stalled in the smoking-room upon a sofa. 

“ An excellent woman, who was the lady 
companion of Madame De Drives, and 
afterwards instructress of my daughter.” 

“ She terrified me. I thought she 
wanted to exorcise me.” 

“ She thought of it perhaps,” said De 
Drives, with a smile. “ She does not al- 
?ow me to receive at my own house any 
but my daughter, son-in-law, and his 
mother.” 

“ Then, my dear friend, hide me quick-, 
you will offend her if she sees me appear 
at the window. Please shut this blind, 
and I shall not be seen from your son-in- 
law’s. Hand me also an opera-glass, 
that I may contemplate the happy man, 
his ivy and rare plants.” 

“ The happy man,” said Monsieur De 
Drives, handing to Cora his opera-glass, 
“ seems to be sitting there in his library. 
Do you not see him ?” 

“ Nearly.” 

“You will see him better when he 
turns his head towards his favorite flow- 
ers, and it will not be long first, for he 
loves to see them grow. Look, what did 
I tell you? Now you can see him as 
plainly as I see you.” 

“ Exactly,” said Cora. 

“ What is the matter,” asked De Drives, 
“ your glass shakes as if your hand trem- 
bled ? Are you cold ? Will you have a 
fire?” 

“Not necessary,” said she; “I was a 
little cold, but I will return home on foot, 
and that will warm me.” 

“You have not told me- how you like 
the looks of my son-in-law?” 

“Very well. So well that I should be 
delighted to be better acquainted. Pray 
take him to my house with you one of 
these days.” 

“ Him to your house, my dear friend ? 


to a house where gambling is so much in 
favor? lie shares my daughter’s ideas 
on gambling. He detests it.” 

“ Dah ! I will take it upon myself to 
make him love it.” 

“ I defy you to do it ; I would rather 
not though, for fear you might accept my 
challenge. One gambler is quite enough 
in our family.” 

They exchanged a few more phrases, 
and Cora retired. 

She returned on foot from Léonia 
Street to Neuilly, without entering the 
heart of Paris, preferring the least fre- 
quented streets and the most deserted 
boulevards. She walked with a rapid, 
agitated, and feverish step. Some persons 
turned and looked at her with curiosity. 
She kept talking aloud to herself, without 
minding or perceiving that any one was 
looking at her. 

On arriving at Neuilly Avenue, she 
went up to her room and locked the door. 


szvrzi- 

When Cora caught a glimpse of George 
Gérard, he was sitting in his library be- 
fore a glass door that opened on a lev^l 
into his garden, with a book in his hand. 

A moment after he laid his book aside, 
rose and exchanged some words with his 
wife, who was embroidering in a neigh- 
boring room, and going up one story, re- 
joined his mother. 

“You don’t come down with us,” said 
George. “ Are you offended with me?” 

“No, my dear child, but I am very 
sorry for your imprudence of yesterday. 
Allow me time to recover.” 

“ Dear mother,” said he, taking his 
seat by the side of her and her hands in 
his, “ you are really unreasonable. Can 
I refuse my wife every kind of amuse- 
ment? She does not ask for any, the dear 
child, I know; but at her age do you 
think that she has no desire of amuse- 


134 


ARTICLE 47. 


ment, of seeing what everybody sees, 
and of living as others live? Yesterday 
Doctor Combes offered us that box in her 
presence, and I read in her eyes that she 
was dying with a desire to accept it. It 
was necessary to allow it. But if you 
knew with what precautions I surrounded 
myself. In order to go to the theatre, I 
waited till the play had begun, that I 
might not meet any one in the passage- 
ways. I remained all the time in the 
back part of the box behind my wife and 
her father, and left before the close of the 
play. By taking this course, dear mo- 
ther, I obeyed your recommendations as 
to being cautious. Don’t be, therefore, 
uneasy in this direction, for I am not. I 
have suffered enough, as you know, and 
it seems impossible that I am destined to 
suffer any more.” 

“ Ahl I hope so,” said she, “I believe 
it. My prayers have ascended to God, 
and he has heard them.” 

On pronouncing these words a gentle 
rap was heard at the door. 

A chambermaid, who had been in the 
service of Madame Gérard since her ar- 
rival in Paris and her installation in 
Léonia Street, entered the room. 

“What is wanted, Julie?” asked Ma- 
dame Gérard. 

“ Here is a letter for monsieur, which 
an errand-boy has just brought.” 

“ Give it to me,” said George. 

He took the letter and the maid re- 
tired. 

“Who can be writing to you?” said 
Madame Gérard, looking at her son. 

Suddenly she saw him totter and turn 
pale. She ran to him. 

“Ah,” he exclaimed, handing her the 
letter, “you were right!” 

She read as follows : 

“ At last I have found you, my dear 
George ; it is bad in you to live for so 
long a time in the same city as I do, and 
not give me any sign of your existence. 
You did not know my address, perhaps. 
Well, here it is: Neuilly Avenue, first 
hotel on the right as you come from 


Paris. Take a coach quick and come to 
see me, I am alone. Don’t keep me wait- 
ing for you, for I should complain to 
your father-in-law, wlro is one of my best 
friends. Till very soon, 

“ Cora.” 


XLYTIII- 

One hour after receiving Cora’s letter 
George alighted from his carriage in front 
of the hotel in Neuilly Avenue. Though 
' paler than usual, he appeared calm and 
resolute. He was undoubtedly expected, 
as the servant who went to the door, 
without asking for his name, showed him 
up to a small boudoir in the second story. 

In about five minutes Cora made her 
appearance. 

She had on a white cashmere robe, — 
a kind of antique peplum ^ — cut very low, 
and which, being held upon the shoulders 
by cameos, left the arms entirely bare. 
A gold band surrounded her waist and 
served to set off a fuller hip development. 
With one hand she brought adroitly over 
the lower portion of her face a white 
blond-lace scarf attached to the top of her 
head by a shell-comb, after the Spanish 
fashion. 

Although it was still daylight outside, 
the blinds of the room in which Cora re- 
ceived George were already shut, and the 
candles were lighted on the mantel-piece. 

“ I find you at last,” said Cora, after a 
moment’s silence. 

“ I thought I should see you no more,” 
replied he. 

“ And I was sure of finding you again, 
sooner or later.” 

“ May I know why you wish to see me, 
and why you have written me to come?” 

“ I will inform you ; but as our con- 
versation may be long, I will request you 
to be seated.” 

“ As you please,” said he, taking a seat 
some feet from Cora, who took her place 
on the sofa. 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


135 


She adjusted the folds of her robe, ar- 
ranged her scarf so as to allow her to 
talk, at the same time concealing her face 
as much as possible, and resumed the con- 
versation as follows : 

“ So your name is no longer George du 
Hamel, but George Gérard. You have 
been living in Léonia Street since you 
left — the south of France. You are the 
son-in-law of Monsieur De Drives, a friend 
of mine, and husband of one of the pret- 
tiest women in Paris.” 

“ You are very nearly right,” said he. 
“But what do you wish to come at? 
Have you anything to ask of me ? Or 
do you mean to give vent to recrimina- 
tions and threats?” 

“ I have nothing to ask of you,” re- 
sponded she ; “my position, as to fortune, 
is as good as yours, if not superior. 
Threats would be in bad taste and utterly 
useless 5 for you will understand me by 
half a word. My letter contained none, 
and you hastened to come at my call, in 
spite of your retired habits. As to re- 
criminations, I will explain myself clearly 
with you on this point. Excuse me if I 
have the bad taste to cast a look upon the 
past. It is in the interest of my expla- 
nations.” 

“ I will listen,” replied he. 

“ I arrived in France,” said she, “about 
ten years ago. I was young, beautiful, 
and happy, and formed a thousand plans. 
In a moment my ardently cherished 
schemes all vanished. That beauty of 
which I was so proud, and which was to 
help me in making my fortune, had just 
disappeared. A pistol-shot had disfigured 
me. I dreamed of light and sunshine, 
but was forever doomed to obscurity and 
darkness. I had no longer but one 
thought, and that was to be revenged on 
the man whose fit of passion, implacable 
jealousy and brutality, had inflicted upon 
me the most cruel of punishments for a 
woman, namely, to be ugly, and to be 
conscious of one’s ugliness, because of 
the remembrance of former beauty. I 
accused that man of a crime he never 


committed, that he never thought of. In 
deed, if he is quick tempered, and his 
hand too prompt, his delicacy and loyalty 
are excessive. Had it not been for that 
accusation of robbery or theft, he prob- 
ably would not even have been con- 
demned. He was condemned, thanks to 
me and because of me. I was avenged. 
We are both avenged, my dear George 
du Hamel.” 

“ What next ?” asked he. 

She resumed, without seeming to have 
heard him. 

“ If I had not an excellent disposition, 
I might, it is true, complain that my ven- 
geance has not been complete, that my 
condemned man has not entirely expiated 
his crime. I might remind him of Arti- 
cle 47 of the Penal Code, which I have 
studied a good deal, and which he knows 
as well as I. This article forbade his go- 
ing to Paris, assigned to Inm for a resi- 
dence a provincial town, and subjected 
him, for life, to a kind of most painful 
servitude. He paid no regard to these 
police regulations, and I do not blame 
him. He made for himself Léonia Street 
his mysterious and charming residence. 
He entered an honorable family, and 
married an accomplished woman. That 
is capital, perfect ! Ah, truly, in this 
world every one cuts his way through the 
best he can. His position is desperate, 
and he has found the means of rendering 
it very agreeable. Why should I blame 
him , — I who have, in my way, done very 
nearly as he has done ? Though ugly or 
homely enough to frighten any one, I 
have succeeded, with ingenious combina- 
tions and a thousand little artifices, in 
rendering myself endurable, supportable. 

I arrived in Paris without friends and 
without business relations. To-day I 
have excellent ones of both classes. I 
was in possession of a hundred thousand 
francs ; hardly enough to live on. I now 
enjoy an income of sixty thousand francs, 
and am proprietor of two hotels. He and I 
both, therefore, have repaired in the best 
way we could our respective misfortunes. 


136 


ARTICLE p. 


The eflfect of the pistol-shot has been less 
terrible than I supposed, and the conse- 
quences of condemnation to hard labor 
very nearly null or inconsiderable. There- 
fore no more recriminations, on the one 
side or on the other. Is that well under- 
stood?” 

“ Perfectly,” said George, who had lis- 
tened to Cora with the greatest com- 
posure ; ‘‘ but I do not suppose that you 
have sent for me to tell me that you have 
no ill-will against me, and that you find 
yourself in a fiourishing condition.” 

“ In the first place,” replied she, “ I am 
glad to give you the information I have 
imparted. Pray think. Happy as you 
are, you must have more than one thought 
of that poor Cora. You have asked your- 
self what had become of her, and how 
she had got out of her troubles. Perhaps 
even you have pitied her, and your ex- 
cellent heart has been moved with com- 
passion. Now, dear, friend, all your in- 
quietudes have disappeared. Cora is in 
good health, and less homely than you 
supposed. She is as well shaped as for- 
merly, and perhaps better. She has the 
manners, elegance, and style, pardon me, 
which you did not think she possessed. 
She is rich, very rich, and in the way of 
becoming more so. She receives the most 
distinguished men of Paris, among whom 
is your father-in-law. This good news 
well pays for the trouble you have taken 
to pay a visit to Neuilly Avenue.” 

“ Doubtless,” said he, rising ; “ and now 
that I have heard it, permit me to retire.” 

“Oh, no!” 

“Have you anything else to say to 
me?” 

“Certainly. Otherwise I should not 
have made my toilette so expensive. I 
have been at this expense wholly on your 
account, my friend. Pray look at me.” 

She rose, stepped towards the mantel- 
piece, arranged the candlesticks so as to 
be in a better light, and placing herself 
in front of George, — 

“Does not this dress admirably set off 
this waist which you formerly liked so 


much ? Look at these black satin slip- 
pers. Have you ever seen so small a foot 
in a more elegant envelope ?... And 
my neck is still young, my hair suffi- 
ciently abundant and black. My eyes, 
you see, are such as you have already 
known them. I know well that the lower 
part of my face is not the same, but I 
conceal it so skillfully by the aid of this 
lace, that I am sure you would not have 
the courage to reproach me with the 
changes that have taken place.” 

George looked at her with astonishment, 
trying to divine the object of such unex- 
pected coquetry. 

“Now,” said she, after again in 
front of him as a model before a painter, 
“ let us sit down again and have another 
talk.” 


XZXl. 

“ My friend,” said she, “it is your mis" 
fortune and mine that you have never un- 
derstood me. With a woman like me 
one does not conduct himself as with 
others, and you committed great errors 
in the early period of our connection. 
And yet, the way in which it was formed 
ought to have enlightened you. What 
was it in you that captivated me? What 
reasons urged me to write to you and beg 
of you to come and see me after you had re- 
covered from your wounds ? It was the 
firmness with which you had taken up 
my defense when I was refused an en- 
trance into the New Orleans theatre, and 
the intrepidity displayed the next day at 

the time of your duel with John de B . 

This energetic conduct had, if not con- 
quered my heart,— it is possible I have 
none, as you have often told me, — at 
least excited my imagination. I proved 
it to you by choosing you for my first 
lover and by giving myself up to you 
without reserve. 

“ Your début, your first steps, attracted 
me to you. You had made for yourself 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


137 


an exceptional situation, and it was 
necessary to keep it, and remain on the 
pedestal that I had raised for you. But 
if, on certain occasions, you are unques- 
tionably brave, and if this bravery is 
pushed on to temerity and violence, in 
ordinary life you do ûot show yourself, 
or at least did not formerly with me, suf- 
ficiently firm and resolute. Our first quar- 
rel dates from a day when you found me 
whipping one of my mulatto girls. This 
was my right, but the spectacle displeased 
you. Do you know what you ought to 
have done? You should have taken the 
whip from my hands, and if I protested, 
have treated me as I was treating my 
slave. My wrath might have been terri- 
ble I know. You would have avoided 
the scene by going home, and the next 
day I should have begged of you to re- 
turn, and asked your pardon. I know 
who I am. I have slave blood in my 
veins. What consoles me is, that many 
white women, many Parisians, have the 
same blood as I, and are attached only to 
men who know the need of maltreating 
and brutalizing them.” 

She stopped to take breath, and then 
continued with greater calmness : 

“ Instead of doing as I have just indi- 
cated, you lectured me, reasoned with me, 
and tried to touch my feelings, and I 
begged you to let me alone. Instead of 
waiting for me to return to you, you ran 
to me like a suppliant ; when it was my 
duty to beg pardon and humble myself 
before you, you had inverted the parts, 
my friend, you had alienated your rights, 
and from that day your cause was lost. 

“ I had given myself a master, that 
master abdicated his authority of his own 
accord ; I seized it immediately and abused 
it, because women are extremists in all 
things. For them there is not a shadow 
of différence between command and tyr- 
anny. 

“Behold all your misfortunes date from 
the time I speak of. You have never 
been able to regain your lost rights. You 
had relinquished your sceptre to me, and 


I held it with so firm a grasp that it 
could never again be lost. Your anger I 
laughed at. Your revolt I ridiculed. 
Had you not given me the exact measure 
of your weakness, and did I not know 
that, in spite of my errors and faults, you 
would still return to me repentant and 
submissive ? 

“ The life that I made you lead then 
you would still lead, if I had wished it, or 
rather if I had not abused my power 
and passed the limits of tyranny. 

“ But it is always so. When one is in 
power he hopes to reign forever ; and be- 
cause he has suppressed certain insurrec- 
tions, he does not see the revolution that 
is silently brooding, and requires only a 
pretext for bursting forth. This pretext 
I furnished you in Havre. At the mo- 
ment when I thought myself stronger 
than ever you suddenly revolted, and I 
fell under your blows. 

“ There you have our history ; I have 
told your errors, and I have told my 
faults.” 

“ And I have attentively listened,” re- 
plied George ; “ but I have yet to learn 
the object of this double biography.” 

“We are coming to that,” said she; 
“ rather slowly, it is true, for what re- 
mains for me to say is rather delicate.” 

He looked at her with astonishment. 

She resumed, but this time her voice 
was excited and her gesture energetic : 

“You thought, and I thought for a 
long time, that the day when, in order to 
render your position more difiicult and 
take from you all hope of being acquitted, 
I accused you of robbery, — we thought, I 
say, both of us, that one single feeling 
actuated me, the desire of vengeance. We 
were both of us mistaken. I hated you, 
that is certain. I was happy to return 
you wound for wound and blow for blow. 
But I said to myself at the same time, he 
has disfigured me that I may have no 
more lovers ; I will send him to the gal- 
leys, that he may have no more mis- 
tresses. It was by punishing me as you 
had done, by chastising me in a terrible 


138 


ARTICLE 47. 


manner, that you regained your author- 
ity. You became the master again, and 
I the slave. You were no longer the 
weak and cowardly heart that I abused 
for two years, that I martyred at my 
pleasure -, you were in my eyes a man, a 
man who avenges himself, a man who 
for a long time has disdained to strike 
those who offend him, but who strikes 
without mercy when once his arm is 
raised.” 

While uttering these words, Cora had 
advanced towards George, and was look- 
ing him steadily in the face. 

“Yes,” said she, “ I hated you. Instead 
of sending you to Toulon, I could have 
wished you might be sent to the scaffold. 
But I had begun to love you again. I loved 
you as I did the day following your duel, 
as on the day when I gave myself to you 
for the first time. What do I say? I loved 
you a thousand times more. And the 
oftener I looked in my glass, and the 
more frightful I appeared, the more I 
loved you, because I was well convinced 
that you could no longer love me, and 
that all was up between you and me. I 
wanted to forget you, and put some other 
in your place. I gave myself to little 
Victor Mazilier, you know, him of whom 
you were jealous- He had known how 
to take me, and he ruled me by his im- 
perious tone and dictatorial manner. 
But I saw you again at Toulon, and 
Mazilier has no longer an existence for 
me. Do you remember my visit to Tou- 
lon? I advance, you recognize mb, and 
your head, which you held down, is 
raised. Your whole body becomes erect, 
your eyes are fixed on me, and you wrap 
yourself in your cloak of infamy as a 
sovereign in his mantle of royalty ! Ah, 
since that time I have had but one 
thought, which was to see and find you 
again I” 

As she had still advanced towards him, 
and continued looking at him, he left his 
place, stepped to the mantel-piece, took a 
cigarette which was in a cup, lighted it 
by one of the candles, and said, — 


“ Well, you have found me again, and 
now what?” 

She came towards him, exclaiming, — 

“ How I love you as you now look ! 
how disdainful ! — how well you assume 
the attitude suitable to a man who is con- 
scious of his moral worth, and who holds 
in contempt a creature like me ! But 
I love you, I still love you 1 ” 

“ That is possible ; but I do not love 
you.” 

“ You love another. I know her ; I 
have seen her. She is charming, and 
therefore I am terribly jealous of her.” 

“ What?” said he, frightened. 

“.You shall abandon her for me, or 
else ” 

“ Or else ?” 

“ She shall cruelly suffer.” 

“Wretch!” exclaimed he, springing 
towards her. 

“ Take care, violence results in no good 
to you.” 


xis:. 

Notwithstanding the equanimity he 
had evinced from the beginning of this 
scene, and which seemed to have been 
self-imposed, George was not master of 
himself when Cora dared to speak of his 
wife. But he had acquired during ten 
years too much self-control to allow his 
anger to exceed certain limits. In an in- 
stant it was appeased. All his coolness 
returned, and he took his seat in front of 
his old mistress, looked steadily at her, 
and said, without raising his voice, — 

“ Thus you have just unmasked. You 
have renounced the soft words and pacific 
protestations with which you received me. 

‘ I will make no threats,’ said you ; ‘ what 
Mmuld be the use, you will understand by 
half a word ?’ I did not wish to under- 
stand, and immediately forth came the 
threat from your lips. Well, so much the 
better. I prefer that, as I know now at 
least on what to depend. Let us explain 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


139 


ourselves frankly, -without reticence and 
"without hypocrisy. Will that suit you ?” 

“ Go on.” 

“ You know who I am, you know my 
past. AVith one word you can inflict 
upon me a terrible evil. You can destroy 
my happiness, you can send me to prison ; 
you can dispose of three existences : mine, 
my wife’s, and that of my mother. I 
acknowledge your advantages over me. 
At what price do you estimate them ? In 
order that you may not use them, but 
abandon them, how much do you want ? 
My mother and I have an income of 
twenty thousand francs. They are yours. 
AYe will labor for a living. My wife had 
a doAvry of four hundred thousand 
francs, and I intended never to touch 
them. But the case is a grave one. Take 
the dowry, I abandon it. That makes 
about forty thousand francs income, does 
it not ? I agree to pay you this income 
yearly, so long as you are silent, be it un- 
derstood, and you know that my word 
can be relied on. AA^hat do you want 
more ?” 

“ My friend, you are talking nonsense. 
I have already told you that I was richer 
than you, your wife, and your mother put 
together. I will have nothing to do with 
your money, and you insult me when you 
ofler it.” 

“ AVhat do you wish then? Be definite.” 

“ I have already been definite enough. 
It was not my fault if you didn’t under- 
stand.” 

‘‘You have spoken to me only of your 
love. I don’t believe in it. That your 
imagination is now unnaturally excited, 

I grant. The life that I have led, and 
which creates for me an exceptional posi- 
tion ; the mysteries which surround me, 
my title perhaps, — for it is a title for you, 
— of liberated galley-slave, and even that 
infamous livery in which you saw me at 
Toulon, and which gives me, in your eyes, 
a sort of originality ; all these sad cir- 
cumstances united have made an impres- 
sion on your unsound mind, and carried 
disorder into your diseased brain. But 1 


you do not love me. I repeat it, you do 
not love me.” 

“ And / repeat to you that I do love 
you,” said she. “ I know better than you, 
I think. Yes, you are right ; that cos- 
tume in which I saw you, and in which I 
constantly see you 5 that title, as you call 
it, of a liberated galley-slave, have marked 
your person with a peculiar stamp, and 
they exalt my imagination. But the ques- 
tion is not about my head merely. My 
whole being belongs to you, understand 5 
my whole being, my heart included. Ah, 
don’t tell me that I have none ! It does 
not perhaps resemble that of other wo- 
men ; it is more gangrened than theirs, 
but I have one, for I feel it beat, and it 
makes me sufier, — ^yes, you need not shrug 
your shoulders, it suffers, I tell you, it 
sujffers from your disdain and contempt, 
which I approve of, however, and which 
make me love you the more. It suffers 
especially when I think of your wife, who 
is charming, when I am so ugly, who is 
adorable and whom you adore. Ah, if you 
had lived modest and resigned with your 
mother, in one corner of Paris, I should 
not perhaps have thought of disturbing 
your solitude ! I should not have written 
you to come and see me, and you would 
not be here. I should have tried to forget 
you, as I formerly succeeded in doing ; 
and, in the company of some Victor Ma- 
zilier, might have calmed my ridiculous 
transports. But I find you in the heart of 
Paris almost, rich, brilliant, and happy. 
You are the husband of a splendid wo- 
man, who adores and loves you. It is an 
injustice, and I will not tolerate it. It is 
to me that you belong, and not to her. 
It is I that you would still love if you 
had not disfigured me. I am not willing 
that she should profit by my ugliness or 
deformity ; that she should benefit by the 
blow you gave me ; that you may say to 
her, ‘I adore you,’ to me, ‘YouJiorrify 
me.’ You love me no longer. So be it. 
But I am not willing that you should be 
happy through her, and I am unwilling 
that you should make her happy.” 


140 


ARTICLE Jfl, 


“ Do you insist upon it that you love 
me? Come, throw off your mask entirely, 
and confess that vengeance is your object. 
Formerly you accused me of robbery, you 
sent me to prison, but that did not suffice. 
Now you wish to injure me in that which 
I hold most dear upon earth. Ah, you are 
indeed still the same woman ! But I will 
not stop to reproach you with your infamy. 
Do you understand me ? Speak, what do 
you want, what do you ^act? If I am 
still here, you know very well it is be- 
cause it is necessary to capitulate with 
you. Let us see. Come, dictate your 
orders.” 

“ Well, here they are,” said she. “You 
shall divide your time between your wife 
and me. When you are not with her, 
you must be here with me, in this hotel. 
You will continue to love her, that I can- 
not prevent; but you must let me see 
you, in my turn, and repeat to you that 
I love you. Notice my generosity. I 
could require that your whole time should 
be devoted to me.” 

“ Generosity, do you say? I call it a 
refinement of corruption and cruelty.” 

“ It is possible. But do you accept ? I 
will take it upon myself to explain your 
presence in my house. Your father-in- 
law himself will present you, will be- 
come your accomplice, and palliate your 
conduct. I have my plan.” 

“ My father-in-law is an honest man.” 

“He is a gambler, and excessively fond 
of gamblers.” 

“ Ah ! do you wish ” 

“ I wish you to spend your evenings 
seated in front of me in my drawing- 
room.” 

“ And then what?” 

“We shall see; don’t be troubled. You 
have spoken the word. You have spoken 
of refinement. I am a refined woman, and 
in that capacity I can sense all situations 
without ever giving offense.” 

“But I should soon pass for your 
lover.” 

“ I count upon that. What glory for 
me when it shall be said, ‘ Do you know 


that charming Madame Gérard, daughter 
of Monsieur De Drives? Her husband 
deserts her for Cora’ !” 

“ And if these reports should reach the 
ears of ray wife ? ” 

“ Eh ! my friend, you must take care 
that they do not reach them. Ask other 
husbands how they manage in such cases.” 

“ For how long a time shall I be sul> 
jected to this trial?” 

“ As long as I shall love you. When 
I shall no longer be in love with you I 
will restore your liberty, think no more 
about you, and never betray your secret. 
You may rely on that.” 

“ Well, well,” said he, “ this is a new 
kind of blackmail, love-blackmail.” 

“The word is just the thing,” replied 
she with a smile. “ I will remember it.” 

He rose suddenly, approached her, and 
said, — 

“ If I refuse to submit to the infamy 
you propose, what will you do?” 

“ I will expose you,” said she without 
hesitation, looking him in the face. “My 
measures are taken. I foresaw your re- 
sistance, and at the same time that I 
wrote you to come to my house I wrote 
to the attorney-general.” 

She opened a small rosewood desk 
which was in her boudoir, took from it 
a letter not yet sealed, and presenting it 
open to George, she said, — 

“ Read.” 

He read the letter, which was as fol- 
lows : 

“ The man named George du Hamel, 
condemned ten years ago to five years of 
hard labor, after serving out his time at 
Toulon, has broken the han of surveil- 
lance, and now lives in Paris, Léonia 
Street, under the name of Gérard. Al- 
ready a victim of this convict, I have 
reason to fear at this time that he may 
show towards me fresh violence, and find 
myself obliged to call your attention to 
the same.” 

“ You are all right,” said George, with- 
out losing his equanimity, returning her 
the letter. 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


141 


“ Am I not?” said Cora. After your 
departure, I shall carefully seal this letter, 
put on the address, and shut it up in a 
safe place. It shall not be sent unless 
you oblige me to send it. But you have 
too much good sense, dear George, to 
provoke me to do it.*;’ 

At the same time she advanced, rested 
one of her arms upon his shoulder, and 
said, in her sweetest voice, — 

“ What is asked of you, after all ? It 
is the permission to love you. And she 
who implores you is the one whom you 
formerly adored, even to the extent of 
wishing to kill her.” 

And when he repelled her, she straight- 
ened up and said, with the tone of a 
mistress of the house of whom one of her 
visitors is taking leave, — 

“ Au revoir^ dear sir ; in a few days, — a 
week at furthest, — I can’t give you any 
more.” 

Then she rang the bell, to give notice 
in the anteroom that some one was going 
to leave. 


XXZI. 

When on leaving Cora George found 
himself in Neuilly Avenue, night had set 
in. The carriage that had brought him 
was still waiting for him at the door. He 
dismissed it and went on foot down the 
avenue leading to the Triumphal Arch 
and the Elysian Fields. 

Ilis head was on fire and his lungs op- 
pressed. He had need of air and motion. 
It was necessary he should reflect on what 
had just taken place, that he should en- 
deavor to penetrate the darkness which 
had suddenly enveloped him, that he 
should sound the abyss which had 
opened beneath his feet. 

In the presence of Cora he had kept a 
good countenance. He was unwilling 
that she should notice his fears and 
rejoice at the harm she was doing 


him. Scarcely did he change color when 
she threatened him with exposure. To 
all her cruelties he had opposed an un- 
changeable coolness. One would have 
thought, to see him and hear him, that he 
was invulnerable to the blows that might 
be given him. But now that he was in 
the street, Cora could no longer see him 
and listen to him, nor read his anguish in 
his face. He was alone and in open 
space. There was no one to disturb him 
in that part of Paris, deserted in the 
evening. He was at leisure to tremble, 
to suffer, and complain. 

What! had she found him when he 
thought himself so concealed? Was he 
still dependent upon that creature ? Could 
she dispose of his life and lot, as also of 
the life and happiness of the two persona 
whom he loved the most in the world, his 
wife and mother ? In a word, was it in 
her power to kill them, yes, MU them? 
The one exhausted by all that she had suf- 
feredj could she hold out against new sor- 
rows ? the other in feeble health, affected 
by a disease to which any emotion may 
be fatal, could she bear the cruel emo- 
tions which threatened her? No, he 
could not be deceived in this direction. 
The existence of his mother and of his 
wife was in suspense, and depended on 
his obedience to the orders of Cora, or 
upon his refusal to submit to the whims 
of that creature. As to his own exist- 
ence, it was not necessary to think of it, 
or make any account of it. It was con- 
nected with that of Marcelle. If Mar- 
celle died, he should die also, that was 
certain. He and she were one and the 
same person. They had but one soul and 
one life, and could die but once, at the 
same time and by the same blow. He 
thought so at least. 

Thus, for a moment, ideas of suicide 
had taken possession of his mind. 

“ If I should kill myself,” said he to 
himself, “ Marcelle would die immedi- 
ately, and would never know my past 
history.” 

But had he the right thus to dispose of 


142 


ARTICLE 47 . 


the life of that young woman, and make 
himself her executioner ? 

She might perish by the blows of Cora ! 
but she ought not to fall by any act of him. 

_ What, then, must be done ? It was im- 
portant to decide upon something before 
returning to Léonia Street. When one 
has decided upon a course to be taken, 
however terrible it may be, he may wear 
a face that will not inform any one of the 
tortures that fill his heart. But when he 
is irresolute and uncertain, when he does 
not know on what to decide, he is sure to 
betray himself. He gave himself an hour 
to form an irrevocable resolution. 

Having rid himself of his idea of sui- 
cide, he thought he ought to return home 
to tell Marcelle that their happiness was 
threatened, and propose to her to de- 
part immediately. They would go and con- 
ceal themselves abroad, and have no more 
connection with France. But what would 
Marcelle think of so sudden a departure ? 
What would Monsieur De Brives say ? 
And besides, would he not remain in 
Paris? and in her anger at seeing her vic- 
tims escape her, would not Cora hasten 
to inform him of the past life of George ? 
And then, she was a woman of precau- 
tion. As she had, in advance, written to 
the attorney-general, so she must have 
taken measures to make the project of 
flight impracticable. 

“ Suppose,” said he suddenly to himself, 

I should go to Monsieur X , and say to 

him, ‘You have always believed in my in- 
nocence, and have deplored my condemna- 
tion ; you esteem and love me. Come 
with me, you are disinterested in the 
question ; you are well known and ven- 
erated, and will be believed. W e will go 
and see my wife, and in your presence I 
will confess everything relating to myself. 
I will have that courage. She shall learn 
my crime and the punishment that fol- 
lowed it, but you will be there to say to 
her that punishment was too severe, and 
was unmerited. It would never have been 
inflicted had it not been for the infamous 
calumny uttered by that miserable wo- 


man. You will explain to her all that 
has taken place. She will understand, 
through you, that my honor has not been 
tarnished, and that ” 

He stopped, and pursuing the same idea 
under another form, said, — 

“Yes, but she will reproach me for not 
having told her the whole truth sooner. 
When, at Baden, I was urged by her to 
read to her the trial of that unfortunate 
man whose situation was so much like 
mine, she said, ‘I do not reproach 
him for his crime, but I blame him for 
his lack of frankness. One owes the 
truth, and the whole truth, to her who is 
to bear your name, to her who confides to 
you her destiny.’ Ah, how well I remember 
those words I They cut me to the heart. 
But I admit that she may pardon my 
crime against society and towards her. I 
admit that she may wish to forget the 
punishment inflicted upon me, but will 
she be able to do it? Will not her im- 
agination carry her back incessantly to 
the time when I was in prison at Toulon ? 
Will she not see me with a chain riveted 
to my ankle, and the convict’s dress on my 
shoulders ? This spectacle, so pleasing to 
Cora, and which attracts her towards me, 
will it not have on Marcelle a contrary 
effect? Will she not avoid me and cease 
to love me ? A woman like Marcelle can- 
not experience the same sensations as a 
woman like Cora. The same causes ought 
to produce on each of them opposite 
effects. But I am mistaken. She has par- 
doned me, she has forgotten and con- 
quered her prejudices ; but the Article 47, 
which I have eluded, my impending ar- 
rest, the prison, — again the prison ! 

“ No, it is impossible ! it is impossible ! 
I cannot confess, I cannot ! 

“ But if I neither kill myself, flee the 
country, nor confess, what shall I do ? 

“Shall I obey that woman’s orders? 

Shall I AYhat, spend half of my life 

with that creature that I abhor, and 
have it said that I prefer her to my wife, 
and sacrifice my wife to her, and deceive 
Marcelle for her ! 


THE HIGH POLICE, 


143 


“ Ï0 be obliged to sit by her side and 
hear her talk to me of love, when Mar- 
celle is troubled about my absence, per- 
haps jealous and suffering! It is fright- 
ful ! There is no punishment to be com- 
pared with this : to adore one woman and 
live with another whom one detests ; to 
leave the arms of the one and rush to the 
embraces of the other.” 

Suddenly he paused. A new idea had 
just crossed his mind. “ Suppose,” said 
he to himself, “ that she is in love with 
me. Suppose that I have really inspired 
her with one of those passions which lead 
to every excess. Her brain is already 
diseased. One is never in possession of 
all his faculties when he carries corrup- 
tion and perversity to such an extent. 
IMoral disorders may carry in their train 
the greatest physical ones. Ah, this be- 
ing true, I might be freed from her ! I 
might be avenged ! Have I not the right 
to be avenged if, especially, I see as a 
consequence my safety and that of my 
mother and wife?” 

It was nine in the evening when he re- 
turned to Léonia Street. Madame Gé- 
rard, in spite of anxious alarms, had found 
a thousand ways of explaining the tardi- 
ness of her son 5 and soon George, who, by 
an incredible effort of will, appeared as 
calm and good-humored as usual, suc- 
ceeded in dissipating all the anxieties of 
Marcelle. 


XIXIII- 

Eight days had been given to George 
by Cora to make his appearance again at 
her house. He profited by this latitude, 
without showing the least haste to antici- 
pate the time which had been assigned 
him as the extreme limit. 

It was on the evening of the eighth day 
that he entered the hotel of Neuilly, un- 
der the auspices of Monsieur De Mézin. 

He had at first applied to Monsieur De 


Drives for this presentation, who could 
not conceal his astonishment. 

“ How, you at Cora’s ! For what ob- 
ject? Are you a gambler?” 

“ I have never touched a card in my 
life.” 

“ At Cora’s they gamble all the time. 
No other amusement is known.” 

“ Exactly so.” 

“ Do you wish to learn to play?” 

“ Have no fear, it is for a useful ■pur- 
pose.” 

“ Useful ? Are you going to study 
gamblers, and write a book about us?” 

“Don’t ask me for my secret.” 

“ I have guessed it : that is it. Ah, my 
friend, how many things you can say ! I 
will furnish you some documents, if you 
desire it.” 

“ In the mean time, will you introduce 
me ?” 

“It is a very delicate matter, dear 
friend. Pray think, my son-in-law at 
Cora’s, and brought by me ! What will 
people say ? If you should be unlucky, 
if you should lose ” 

“ Don’t be uneasy -, I am master of my- 
self.” 

“ You know nothing about it, as you 
have never gambled. If the question 
were about introducing you into a club, 
it would be a different thing ; but at the 
house of a woman ” 

“Oh, a woman !” 

“ Still very charming, I assure you. 
Ask Mézin, he is delighted with her.” 

“ Are you afraid for me ?” 

“ No, indêed, I am afraid of the reflec- 
tions people will make, of the — ah, I must 
decidedly refuse ! I have never been pru- 
dent in my life on my own account, but I 
will be on yours. It is easier. I will not 
present you. But if, with a serious object 
you are really desirous of studying Cora's 
drawing-room, well ” 

“Well ?” 

“ Apply to De Mézin the first time you 
see him at my house.” 

Monsieur de Mézin hastened to put 
himself at the service of George. Having 


144 


ARTICLE Ifl. 


been rejected by Mademoiselle Marcelle 
de Brives when he asked for her hand, 
under the pretext that he was a gambler, 
he rejoiced at the thought that George 
Gérard might become as much of a gam- 
bler as himself, and more so, perhaps, and 
to such a degree as to make Mademoiselle 
De Brives regret having preferred George 
to him. Too scrupulous to cause the 
least prejudice to his rival, he was glad 
to see him injure himself in the opinion 
of his wife, who detested gambling. 

Cora received George in the most gra- 
cious manner possible, without seeming 
to show that she was acquainted with 
him. 

She did not try to speak with him in 
private, and appeared to make no differ- 
ence between him and the rest of her 
guests. In the course of the evening, 
when the rest had taken their seats at 
the gambling-table, she proposed to him 
to sit down with them. He accepted, as 
much to avoid a painful tète-à-tête as to 
explain his presence in the house. 

Cora took a seat in front of him, on a 
sofa near the table. From her position 
she could observe him at her ease and 
not lose one of his movements. The long 
evenings and w'hole nights which she had 
so often passed in isolation — as she did 
not gamble, and everybody around her 
did — were now going to be of some in- 
terest to her. Her eye would no longer 
be bounded by the same horizon. It 
would no more rest on fatigued faces, 
whiskers of desperate uniformity, preten- 
tious moustaches, and bald craniums ; but 
it would repose at length upon a face 
truly energetic, which she could take 
pleasure in studying, whose least changes 
she could analyze, and which already bore 
the indelible mark of the sufferings 
which she herself had caused. 

George did not seem to be aware of the 
attention of which he was the object. Dur- 
ing the whole evening his object seemed 
to be not to raise his eyes upon Cora. 
Seated near Monsieur De Mézin, who 
had taken it upon himself to teach him 


the first elements of the game, he soon 
understood it, and played as every one 
else did. He played even better than the 
rest, for he won more frequently. Has 
not fortune made it a rule to favor those 
who have not yet acquired a habit of im- 
ploring her? “Full hands to the inno- 
cent,” says the proverb. 

Monsieur De Mézin rejoiced at the suc- 
cess of his pupil. “ These first gains,” 
said he, “ will inspire him with a desire 
of new ones. He will become as much of 
a gambler as we. But he will not have 
my experience; gambling will be more 
fatal to him than to me, and Mademoi- 
selle De Brives will perhaps one day re- 
gret me.” 

He was mistaken. One is born a gam- 
bler, but rarely made so. So with the 
poet. Poeta nascitur, non Jit.^ As the 
passion for gambling is generally incura- 
ble, so certain men will never understand 
the pleasure felt in handling over and 
over, all night long, colored bits of paste- 
board, and in pronouncing the same 
words. They will experience no pleas- 
ing emotion at a gambling-board, and will 
not admit that any one else can. Be- 
sides, the passion for gambling, though 
pretty general, is less common than is 
usually thought. Many persons gamble 
because they have need of money and 
hope to gain. Give such the sum they 
want, and they will not gamble. Offer, 
on the contrary, to a born gambler, a 
hundred thousand francs if he will never 
touch a card, and he will refuse them. 

It was, therefore, innocently that 
George gained all the evening. He would 
have asked for nothing better than to 
limit himself to this first and only victory 
and never return to Cora’s, but she un- 
derstood the matter differently. When 
he took leave of her, near two o’clock in 
the morning, at the same time with others 
of her guests, she said to him, “ Till to- 


* The author will excuse the translator for intro- 
ducing this Latin quotation, which was no doubt in 
his mind when he w rote the sentence preceding. 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


145 


morrow,” in a tone which gave him little 
hope for the future. 

No incident of importance occurred 
during the fifteen days following this 
first evening. George, between eleven 
and midnight, went regularly to Neuilly 
Avenue, either alone or in company with 
De Mézin. After saluting the mistress 
of the house, and joining for a moment 
in the conversation of persons surround- 
ing her, he took his seat at the gambling- 
table, and Cora, some minutes after, came 
to install herself in front of him, no more 
to quit for the night her post of observa- 
tion. He played every evening, with the 
same good luck, and without any more 
emotion than on the first day. The pro- 
found disgust inspired by the task he was 
compelled to perform, his complete indif- 
ference as to loss or gain, imparted to 
him a coolness and unchanging equa- 
nimity which were sufficient to account 
for his constant good luck. Gold and 
bank-bills continued to be piled up before 
him, to the astonishment of De Mézin, 
who, interested in the business, began to 
repent of having introduced him so cheer- 
fully to the house. 

The losses which the latter now made 
every evening were not sufficiently com- 
pensated by the pleasure felt in seeing 
George depart from the duties of a hus- 
band. He began at the same time to be 
troubled by the persistency with which 
Cora kept her eye fixed upon his neighbor 
at the table. He thought at first that he 
was the object of this mute contempla- 
tion, and inwardly rejoiced at it -, but he 
soon found himself obliged to confess his 
error. He asked himself at times if 
George, after supplanting him in the af- 
fections of the young girl he wished to 
marry, was going to take from him the 
woman also whom he, for a long time, 
had been desirous of making his mis- 
tress. 

Very soon he had no longer any doubt 
in this direction. One evening, or rather 
one morning, at the time Cora’s visitors 
were taking leave of her after an excel- 
10 


lent supper, she said to George, who was 
about to depart, — 

“ Pray do me the favor to remain a few 
moments with me, my dear sir ; I would 
like to speak with you.” 

George, without uttering a word, bowed 
and let Cora’s guests retire. 

In a rage. De Mézin took Monsieur 
de Drives’ arm, saying, — 

“ What does that mean ? Your son-in- 
law remain here when we all go away, 
and you say nothing?” 

“ What can I say to him at this time?” 
replied Monsieur De Drives. To-morrow 
I shall have a serious conversation with 
him.” 

“ Dut at least you will inform your 
daughter?” 

“ I shall do everything in the world, on 
the contrary, to hide from her the conduct 
of her husband. I have succeeded so far, 
and hope I shall be able to continue.” 

Whilst talking in this way, Cora, hav- 
ing heard the hotel door shut again, 
turned to George and said, — 

“ Please follow me. We shall be more 
comfortable in my boudoir.” 


XISZIIX- 

On reaching the second story, Cora 
showed George into the boudoir where 
she had received him two weeks before. 
The candelabra over the fire-pla^e Avere 
all lighted. A small rock-crystal chan- 
delier, suspended from the ceiling, spark- 
led with light. In the fireplace some 
billets of wood, just throAvn in, were joy- 
ously crackling, while bunches of roses 
were blooming in their vases, and diffus- 
ing delicious perfumes through the air. 
This room, to which the mistress of the 
house rarely retired, and which was al- 
ways shut during the evening, had evi- 
dently been prepared an hour or two 
before for the reception of George. In 
the midst of tho supper the idea had 


. 14G 


ARTICLE A7. 


doubtless occurred to Cora to have a pri- 
vate conversation with her preferred 
guest, and she had given orders accord- 
ingly. 

Her toilette, which she had not had time 
to modify, was very nearly the same she 
wore every day. But hardly had she en- 
tered the room, and under the pretext 
that it was too warm, she threw off the 
sort of black lace scarf or mantle which 
had, during the night, covered her shoul- 
ders, and the blaze from the fire-place 
and the light from the candles immedi- 
ately revealed one of the most admirable 
busts that could be imagined. 

George did not appear to take any 
notice of the preparations that had been 
made for his reception, nor of Cora’s pre- 
liminary coquetry. Standing with his 
back to the fire-place, he seemed to be 
waiting to be spoken to. 

After a minute or two, Cora, who had 
taken a seat, said, “ Well, you have not, I 
hope, any reason to complain of me?’’ 

“ Do I complain?” asked he. 

“You spend,” said she, “ delightful 
evenings with men of great distinction, 
and gain a good deal of money.” 

“A great deal too much,” replied 
George. “You have condemned me to 
gamble, but not to keep the truly ridicu- 
lous sums that chance offers me. I have 
laid them by. They amount, for fifteen 
days, to more than eighty thousand francs. 
Here they are.” 

He drew from his pocket several rolls 
of bank-bills, and put them on the man- 
tel-piece. 

“ That money belongs to you,” said 
Cora; “I don’t want it.” 

“ And I am not willing to keep it. It 
burns my fingers. Do with it what you 
please ; I will not take it again.” 

“ You do wrong. To-morrow you may 
lose, and it is not just that you should en- 
danger your fortune.” 

“ Oh, for the life that I lead,” he said, 
sadly, “ I shall always be rich enough.” 

“ Indeed ; does not your life suit you ?” 
said she. 


He made no reply. 

She resumed : 

“ The persons whom you meet here 
every evening come to my house for their 
pleasure.” 

“ I do not share their tastes.” 

“And I know,” replied she, “at least 
three or four of these gentlemen who 
would be very glad to be in your place 
at this time. Indeed, my friend, you are 
ungrateful to fortune ; she has never fa- 
vored you so much.” 

“ Ah, a truce to pleasantry,” said he, 
quitting his place and walking about the 
room. “ I obey your orders. I pay for 
your silence the price you have set upon 
it. But you have not, I imagine, the idea 
that I am very happy in obeying you. 
Oh !” continued he, in a voice profoundly 
sad, without addressing himself to Cora, 
and as if talking to himself, “very happy 
indeed to pass my evenings and nights in 
this establishment turning cards over and 
over in company with people who are 
strangers to me, whilst yonder are those 
who are distressed by my absence, and 
the change that has been suddenly made 
in my habits. At this moment they are 
expecting me, perhaps, and have not re- 
tired to bed. The one does not know 
where I am, would like to know, and in- 
quires ; the other makes no answer, or 
else, obliged to evade, she invents any 
story to explain my long absence. She 
smiles when she has death in her soul. 
Ah, hold, do not speak ! Do not evoke 
those recollections. I am here: do not 
force me to be yonder, near her. Your 
boudoir is festive. The fire is burning in 
your fire-place, your lights are brilliant, 
and your flowers are in bloom. You 
reign as a sovereign in the midst of all 
this luxury. Ah, do not compel my 
thoughts to visit that dark room where 
my mother on her knees and in tears is 
praying for her son, still separated from 
her, still condemned to new punish- 
ments !” 

This was the first time that he had al- 
1 lowed himself to be overcome by his feel- 


THE HIGH rOLICE. 


147 


ings, and to be moved to teafs. lie had I 
for a moment suspended his walk about 
the room, and had leaned on his elbow 
upon a pier-table. Ills head rested in his 
hand, and his eye seemed to be in search 
of some distant object. 

For a moment Cora contemplated him 
in silence. Then, on a sudden, with one 
bound she darted towards him, and ap- 
proaching her face to his, exclaimed, — 

“ I love you.” 

Immediately George recovered his self- 
control, smiled in a strange manner, and 
said, — 

“ You love me : well, what next?” 

“ Will you love me ?” asked she. 

“ You know well that it is impos- 
sible,” said he. 

“ AYill you become my lover again ?” 

“ Do you order it ?” 

“ I supplicate you.” 

“ Oh, no prayers !” said he 5 “ orders, 
only orders. I am under your govern- 
ment. One does not pray to or suppli- 
cate his servant and slave, but dictates 
to him his will.” 

“Well,” she replied, endeavoring to 
get nearer to him, “ it is my will that 
you again become my lover.” 

“Be it so !” said George, “ I belong to 
you. I am your property. I am your 
chattel. Dispose of me.” 

Hardly had he uttered these words, 
when she threw her arms around him 
and pressed her lips to his. 

He made no effort to avoid her ardent 
caresses, but he returned none. His 
arms remaind pendent and passive by his 
side. His eyes, instead of seeking Cora’s, 
were fixed upon one point of the boudoir, 
and so continued. His lips, pale and dry, 
and closely pressed together, did not open 
for a single instant. He was, as it were, 
inanimate, cold as marble, insensible as a 
statue. 

Th's resistance exasperated Cora. She 
wished to triumph over this inertia, and 
animate this statue, but could not succeed. 

“ Pray look at me,” said she ; “look, I 
am still beautiful. My eyes have never 


had more expression, and have never 
looked upon you with so much love. This 
hair, that you formerly kissed with trans- 
port, is longer and blacker than before. 
Do you doubt it ? I will undo it in your 
presence.” She hastily removed the pins 
and combs, and it fell in rich luxuriance 
upon her neck and naked shoulders. And 
as he continued to look at her without be- 
traying the least emotion, she called to 
her aid the remembrances of the past, in 
order to awaken his torpid imagination. 

“ Have you forgotten,” said she, “ our 
days and nights of love away off yonder 
in America ? Our rooms, you remember, 
opened upon a garden in bloom, and 
through the windows came a thousand 
perfumes. In the distance was heard the 
loud voice of the river which crowded 
back the rising tide, and close by us the 
songs of the birds awakened by the sounds 
of our kisses. Thousands of stars, un- 
known in Europe, twinkled above our 
heads. ‘ Oh !’ you murmured, in my de- 
lighted ear, ‘ I have never dreamed of so 
beautiful a creature as you ! I have never 
seen a form so perfect !’ You seemed un- 
willing to leave me for a moment ; and 
when the first gleams of morning ap- 
peared in the horizon, we were still 
locked in each other’s arms. Do you 
wish that we should be as happy as of 
yore ? Say, do you wish — ” 

“ Suddenly she repelled him, exclaim- 
ing— 

“ It is not a man that I hold in my 
arms, it is a corpse P' 

“ A corpse you will never resuscitate,” 
said he, in words she did not hear. 


XIXIV. 

About five o’clock in the morning, 
after a nervous crisis which lasted nearly 
an hour, Cora, conquered, broken-down, 
and half dead, permitted George to re- 
tire. 


148 


ARTICLE 47. 


Ilis first thought, on finding himself 
alone, was to ask himself if the scene 
which had just taken place w'ould be re- 
newed, and if Cora would not give up 
exposing herself to a new defeat, a defeat 
which she could only reproach herself 
with, and for which it would be unjust to 
blame George. 

She was certainly too intelligent not to 
understand that if the first experiment 
she had made to melt that icy heart had 
not succeeded, all other efibrts would be 
in vain. By one surprise of the senses 
George might have fallen : now all sur- 
prise became impossible. lie would be 
stronger because he had been able to re- 
sist at the first trial. 

“It is finished,” said he to himself. 
“ She knows now that, notwithstanding 
my complete submission to her orders, I 
cannot be her lover. I shall soon recover 
my liberty.” 

Strange to say, however, that thought, 
instead of pleasing, seemed to thwart 
him. One might have said that he re- 
gretted that these scenes were not to be 
repeated. 

In fact, had' he not just experienced a 
rough enjoyment in coming off victorious 
in the struggle of mind with matter, 
and in being able to say to himself, “ In 
me the heart rules the senses. The dis- 
gust inspired by the character of that 
woman is stronger than all the emotions 
that beauty can excite. I will not be her 
lover, not only because I do not wish to 
•be, but because I can not be.” 

And then, what pleasure in avenging 
himself at last upon her who had made 
him suffer so much I in hearing her sup- 
plications and prayers, in seeing her 
crouching before him, palpitating and 
dismayed ! 

Yes, he was in hopes that these terri- 
ble struggles would be renewed, because 
they must necessarily, at no remote pe- 
riod, be followed by some catastrophe 
which would snatch him from the grasp 
of that woman, and sever the chain that 
riveted him to her. 


Ilis hope was not disappointed. 

Scarcely recovered from her first check, 
Cora wished to make a new experiment 
upon the heart of George. She had said 
to herself that the aversion which he 
seemed to feel for her must be rather 
moral than physical. He could not par- 
don the sufferings which he had endured 
through her agency; and the way in 
which she had conducted herself towards 
him was certainly not calculated to make 
him forget the past. She resolved there- 
fore, from a motive purely selfish, to con- 
quer George’s reserve by her repentance 
and generosity. 

“ I understand,” said she to him, when 
they were alone together, “ that you des- 
pise and execrate me. Passion, jealousy 
and despair justify your brutal act upon 
me. Nothing, on the contrary, can justify 
the terrible vengeance that I have drawn 
from it. To accuse you of robbery, to 
cause you to be sent to the penitentiary, 
was infamous! I acknowledge it now. I 
deplore my crime, and wish, as far as I 
can, to atone for it. If you should again 
be put on trial, or rather, if you should 
some day wish to obtain your rehabilita- 
tion, the declaration which I give you, 
written entirely by my hand and signed 
by me, may be of powerful aid to you. 
I have concealed nothing, neither my 
faults towards you, nor the least details 
of the scene when, pushed to an ex- 
tremity by my impudence, you seized, 
without premeditation, without intention, 
perhaps, of hitting me, the weapon near 
your hand, and which I had placed within 
your reach. I accuse myself of having 
unworthily calumniated you, and, for the 
purpose of vengeance, of having lied to 
the peace-commissioner, to the attorney- 
general, to the judge in the preliminaries 
of the trial, to the court and to the jury. 
Never has retractation been more com- 
plete and clear. Here it is. Take it. I 
leave it with you.” 

After handing this paper open to George 
that he might examine it, she added ; “ As 
to the threats which I have made, I dis- 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


149 


avow them. I will never add to my other 
sins that of denouncing you. From this 
day you are at liberty to see me no more. 
But,” exclaimed she, suddenly, rushing 
towards George, kneeling at his feet and 
kissing his hands, “ have pity on your 
slave ! have pity on the unfortunate wo- 
man who adores you ! 

“ Ah, if you knew how I suffer ! I think 
only about you, I see only you, and I 
desire nothing but you. What I am going 
to tell you may seem ridiculous, but it 
is true. I can no longer either sleep or 
eat. You don’t believe me. It is suf- 
ficient, however, to look at me to see that 
I tell the truth. Have you ever known 
me so pale ? Have I not lost flesh since 
the last time I saw you? Ah, never has 
love been more ardent, never passion 
more intense ! You once knew what jeal- 
ousy is, for I made you acquainted with 
it. Well, you have never suffered the 
millionth part of what I suffer, I am sure 
of it. Were you sure that I was deceiv- 
ing you? No, you feared it, believed it, 
that was all. I know that you love 
another, and that you love her as much 
as you hate me. I know that she is 
beautiful, that she is charming ; I am ac- 
quainted with her, and I see you con- 
stantly in each other’s arms. I hear the 
words which you whisper in her ears, 
and I count your kisses. Then my blood 
boils, my head is on fire, and a thousand 
emotions agitate my bosom. Ah, how 
I suffer 1 If you will not love me, why 
then kill me ; for I cannot live without 
your love.” 

These scenes, which were often re- 
newed, made George regret the time when 
Cora accused him, instead of accusing 
herself j when she threatened him instead 
of imploring him. It could not enter 
his heart to pity her, so repulsive and 
odious did that love seem to him, but he 
felt ill at ease before those supplications 
and tears. So he resolved to see her no 
more, "and to dismiss his projects of revenge. 

But she did not so understand it. She 
wrote him to return, for she wished it 


and ordered it ; and when he did return, 
she flew to him exclaimins:, — 

“ Ah, you count upon my promises. 
Because I have sworn never to expose 
you, you shun and abandon me. Fear 
alone kept you at my side. You no longer 
fear, and immediately you forget my en- 
treaties and mock at my sufferings. But 
you have been too hasty in believing my 
oaths. Do the oaths of a woman like 
Cora amount to much ? I should be very 
good and kind indeed to keep them ; but 
I retract them, you understand, I repudi- 
ate them. I wish to see you every day, 
every evening, and every night, or else 
I will expose you. Do you think that I 
am pleased with the idea of becoming 
insane — yes, insane ? When I do not see 
you I feel that my reason is leaving me. 
You refuse to love me. So be it. But 
I exact that you be here, near me, that 
I may cry aloud my love for 

After this, the scenes already related 
were renewed every evening. George re- 
mained insensible to Cora’s most refined 
coquetry. She could not triumph over 
his terrible coldness ; and, as she had 
said one day while pressing him in her 
arms, she thought she was hugging a 
dead body. But, instead of discouraging 
her, this impassibility exalted her to de- 
lirium and frenzy. 

Thus she did not exaggerate when she 
asserted that her reason was gradually 
leaving her. If real love, heart love, how- 
ever intense it may be, rarely carries 
cerebral disturbances in its train ; yet love 
originating in the head or the senses, 
on the contrary, when it attains certain 
proportions, when education and self- 
respect do not come in to regulate it, 
leads in most cases to madness or in- 
sanity. One morning George left Cora’s 
house more sad than ever, because of the 
discourse he had heard and the extrava- 
gances he had witnessed. But he said to 
himself at the same time, — 

“ This state of things cannot continue 
long; the crisis is approaching, and I 
shall soon be delivered from her.” 


150 


ARTICLE Jt7. 


On going down the avenue of Neuillj, 
he did not notice that a carriage that was 
standing before Cora’s hotel had begun 
to move at the moment when he was 
crossing the threshold of the hotel, and 
followed him step by step. 

At the Triumphal Arch he took a coach, 
and immediately the first carriage regu- 
lated its speed by the second. 

They both stopped in Léonia Street 5 
and the moment he alighted from his, he 
saw his wife, who had just stepped out of 
hers. 


Marcelle passed in front of George 
without saying a single word, and went 
to the pavilion in which she lived ; and 
when her chambermaid, who was wait- 
ing for her, had opened the door, she 
dismissed her and entered one of the 
rooms on the lower floor. 

George followed her. At the moment 
he was shutting the door, he felt that 
some one was pushing it from the out- 
side. He drew back, and Madame Gé- 
rard, in her turn, entered the room. 

Since the change that had taken place 
in George’s character, she had watched 
almost every night, always ready to ad- 
vise him on his return, to tell him what 
had passed during his absence, and what 
story she had invented to quiet the anxie- 
ties of Marcelle. It was through her 
vigilance and address that she had suc- 
ceeded thus far in preventing her daugh- 
ter-in-law from harboring too lively 
alarms, sufficiently justified by her hus- 
band’s present mode of life. 

She had at first said that her son was 
devoting his attention to a literary work 
of great importance, which obliged him 
to spend a part of his nights with a col- 
laborator, whose situation would not per- 
mit of his visiting him. Marcelle, for 
some time, had accepted this excuse. But 


some words which had uiiintentionally 
escaped from her father, some blunders 
intentionally made by Monsieur De Mé- 
zin, who was in pursuit of revenge, had 
caused her to entertain doubts as to the 
kind of labor to which George was devot- 
ing himself. She had learned for a cer- 
tainty that her husband was gambling 
every night, and was suffering greatly on 
that account. Yet, being of a more reti- 
cent character than her mother, she had 
never complained directly to George, hop- 
ing that he had only an accidental love 
of cards, and that he would soon be re- 
turned to her. Miss Dowson was the 
only one who perceived her sufferings. 
If Marcelle had not absolutely the same 
character as Madame De Drives, she had 
inherited her disease of the heart, and the 
causes which had developed this disease 
in the mother were producing the same 
effects in the daughter. Their faithful 
.friend. Miss Dowson, could not be mis- 
taken. 

Time passed on, and George returned 
home later and later. On several occa- 
sions, Marcelle, who herself used to keep 
watch a part of the night, noticed that 
her father returned before him. What 
attraction could retain her husband in the 
house where he was, when there was 
nothing to retain Monsieur De Drives? 
The latter was not in the habit of leaving 
a party before it was ended. He would 
stay as long as there was one who was 
willing to play with him. 

At this time, also. Monsieur De Mézin 
put her on the track. He spoke in her 
presence, with artful and perfidious reti- 
cence, of a certain Cora, who lived in Neu- 
illy Avenue, and gave gambling parties. 
He praised her merits and her physical 
qualities. He gave the impression that 
in her drawing-rooms were to be seen all 
the elegant of Paris, and in her boudoir 
the most fashionable married men. 

Then jealousy, from which Marcelle 
had thus far been preserved, stung her to 
the heart ; and she wished to know per- 
sonally if it was in the house of this Cora 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


151 


tbîit her husband passed his nights and 
whether he went there as a gambler or as 
a lover. One evening about eleven o’clock, 
after bidding Madame Gérard good night, 
she went out secretly, took a carriage, and 
went toNeuilly Avenue. She had waited 
long hours excited and anxious, with one 
hand holding the curtain of the coach 
window, with the other pressing against 
her heart, whose terrible palpitations oc- 
casioned great suffering. About four in 
the morning, she recognized Monsieur De 
Mézin, who was leaving with several 
persons, but there still remained some in 
Cora’s house. All the rooms on the lower 
story were lighted up. 

At five o’clock Monsieur De Drives ap- 
peared, in company with some friends. In 
order to reach his carriage, he passed near 
his daughter without suspecting that she 
was so near him -, and when a coachman 
asked him this question, which every one 
has heard on leaving a party, — “ Sir, is it 
necessary to wait, anybody else coming?” 
his answer was : “We are the last ; you 
may go.” 

Broken down by fatigue, and feeling 
more and more oppressed by the throb- 
bing of her heart, and ashamed of what 
she was doing, Marcelle had for a moment 
the thought of returning home. Had not 
her father just said that there was no 
longer any one in the hotel which she 
was watching ? But she said to herself 
at the same time that Monsieur De Drives 
meant, perhaps, to speak only of his gam- 
bling companions, of the invited guests 
who had that evening filled Cora’s rooms. 
It might be that George was in the house, 
and they did not know it. Since she had 
waited so long, she was determined to 
know what to depend upon. 

After the departure of Monsieur De 
Drives and his companions, the light no 
longer shone through the blinds of the 
lower story, and the hotel had become 
dark and silent. In the first story, one 
window only appeared to be lighted up, 
and Marcelle kept her eye fastened upon 
it. “ There is still company here,” said 


she to herself, “ or they would not be up at 
this late hour.” 

In a moment she thought she saw two 
shadows behind the window. 

All at once, about six in the morning, 
it seemed to her that the light was chang- 
ing place. It illuminated successively 
several windows of the first story, and 
then disappeared to be seen again in the 
lower. 

The hotel door opened. A man took 
several steps on the sidewalk. He saw a 
carriage (that of Marcelle), thought it 
was empty, and advanced to take it. 

Marcelle recognized him. It was her 
husband. At the moment he was about 
to put his hand on the coach door, the 
thought occurred to him that he had bet- 
ter walk a few minutes; he proceeded on, 
and was followed by his wife to Léonia 
Street. 

Madame Gérard was ignorant of what 
had just taken place. She had kept 
awake in her room, supposing Marcelle 
to be in hers. When she heard George’s 
steps on the court pavement, she went 
down to meet him. 

By the side of her son, she saw her 
daughter-in-law, with her hat on her 
head, her shawl on her shoulders, and as 
pale as death. 

She understood that all was lost. 

Marcelle left the arm-chair into which 
she had thrown herself on entering the 
drawing-room, and advancing to Madame 
Gérard, without turning to George, said, 
in an energetic tone, — 

“ Madame, your son is basely deceiving 
me.” 

“ My child !” exclaimed Madame Gé- 
rard. 

“Ah!” replied Marcelle, “no longer 
expect to comfort me, and no longer try 
to deceive me. I know the whole. He 
is the lover of a woman known among a 
certain class under the name of Cora. 
Let him dare to deny it !” 

George remained silent. What could 
he say ? How could he excuse himself? 
And, besides, had he the strength to do 


152 


ARTICLE Jt7. 


it? Was he not broken down himself by 
the terrible scene which had just taken 
place between him and Cora? Those 
mad struggles that had lasted for so long 
a time, and in which he was obliged to 
expend so much energy and so much will- 
power, enervated and almost killed him. 

At the moment when Madame Gérard 
was about to respond for her son and de- 
fend him for the last time, suddenly 
Marcelle, who had hitherto spoken an- 
grily to her, rushed to her, took her in 
her arms, and burst into tears. 

“ Ah,” murmured she, through her 
sobs, “ that he should deceive me, — me, 
who loved him so much 1 Oh, it is cruel, 
it is very cruel ! What has he to re- 
proach me with ? What have I done to 
him ? Pray, does he wish to kill me ? 
Ah, I feel well assured, by the throbbings 
of my heart, that I have not a long time 
to live. I shall die of the same disease 
that robbed me of my poor mother. I 
who was so fond of life from the day 
w^hen he spoke to me of his love ! Ah, 
what matters it now ! God may recall 
me to himself, — and the sooner the bet- 
ter.” 

It was heartrending to hear her ex- 
press herself in this strain. 

George still remained silent, but large 
tears were streaming from his eyes. 

“ Ah,” she continued, “ I loved him so 
much that I could have pardoned every- 
thing, even a crime; but treason, never !” 

Quickly Madame Gérard took her head 
in her hands, raised it up, and said, — 

“Well, he has not betrayed you, my 
daughter ; he loves you still, he loves 
you more than ever, and I will prove it 
to you ; but do not forget the words you 
have just pronounced : — ‘ I could have 
pardoned everything, even a crime.’ ” 


s:x:^±. 

George had understood the intention 
of his mother, and Marcelle’s despair had 
finally compelled him to speak. 

To this woman, so young and pure- 
hearted, everything would be preferable, 
as she affirmed, to the thought of having 
been betrayed by her husband. She 
loved well enough now to pardon all the 
faults of the past ; but she would never 
pardon an offense to her love. 

The physical sufferings Marcelle spoke 
of, the pain in the heart which she com- 
plained of, had specially moved the com- 
passion of Madame Gérard. She knew 
that in certain maladies, continuous sor- 
rows or too lively an emotion may be 
followed by the most terrible accidents, 
and she wished at any sacrifice to avoid 
them. The question was once more one 
of life or^ death. There was no time for 
delay. 

George understood so much the better 
the reasonings of his mother, as he had 
given them a long time before. 

“The day when Marcelle,” said he to 
himself, “ shall believe that I am false to 
her, it will be better that she should 
know the truth.” 

The catastrophe Avhich he feared had 
taken place. Besides, he was tired of the 
life to which he had been condemned. 
For a short time he had hoped for a natu- 
ral and terrible dénouement of the drama 
that was being enacted between Cora 
and himself. But it had not arrived. It 
was necessary to look for another. 

So he spoke not a word, and made no 
motion to prevent Madame Gérard from 
speaking. He did not feel courageous 
enough to be present at the conversation 
which she was going to have with Mar- 
celle. He left the room silently, leaving 
the only two beings whom he loved in the^ 
world to decide upon his fate. 

As soon as George had left, Madame 
Gérard, who still held in her arms Mar- 
celle in tears, drew her to a sofa, seated 
her, took a place by her side, and said, — 


I 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


153 


“ The confession you are going to hear, | 
my dear child, will be very painful to 
make, and more painful, perhaps, to hear. 
Lend me your whole attention, and let 
your courage sustain mine.” 

She told Marcelle her whole life, from 
the time of her marriage. She expatiated 
upon the character of Monsieur Gérard, 
his worldly habits, his taste for expense, 
and his nobUiary pretensions, which 
caused him to substitute the name of Du 
Hamel for that of Gérard. 

Being ruined at the end of a few years, 
he left for the United States, leaving her 
in charge of the education of their only 
son. 

She gave long details about the youth 
of George. At twenty, he fights a duel, 
gets mixed up with several political quar- 
rels, and passes for one of the most tur- 
bulent students of the Latin quarter. 
But he is at the same time the best of 
companions, and one of the most afiec- 
tionate sons. He leaves for New Orleans, 
joins his father, and is going, perhaps, to 
create for himself a brilliant position in 
a country where he is already a favorite 
with every one, when he meets with Cora, 

gets into a quarrel with John de B , 

and kills him. 

Having thus given the character of her 
son, confessed his early errors, and re- 
lated his life, in order to prepare Mar- 
celle for the drama which she is soon to 
be made acquainted with, Madame Gé- 
rard describes Cora at length, and gives 
some details in regard to the first years 
of her acquaintance with George. 

Madame Gérard follows her to France, 
analyses her conduct after her arrival at 
Havre, and gives to understand the ex- 
asperation the man must feel whose name 
she had the impudence to take. Finally 
she recapitulates the terrible scene re- 
lated in the first part of this recital. And 
that there may be no doubt in Marcelle’ s 
mind, she reads to her the declaration 
which Cora some days before had handed 
to George. 

When Marcelle has finished the read- 


ing which informs her of the infamous 
calumny of which her husband was a 
victim, Madame Gérard gives her an 
account of his arrest and trial. In order 
to spare the susceptibility of the listener, 
she is not very particular as to the pun- 
ishment to which George was condemned, 
but speaks at length of the courage with 
which he underwent the unmerited pun- 
ishment inflicted upon him. Finally he 
is free. A new existence opens before 
him. He comes to live in Paris with his 
mother, and settles down in Léonia 
Street. Three years elapse, three years 
of quietness and meditation. Adversity 
and labor had made a man of George. 
His head is no longer filled with wild 
schemes and rash enterprises as in former 
times, but his heart remains the same. 
He sees Marcelle, hears her speak, learns 
gradually to know her, and perceives that 
he loves her. 

Then he wishes to flee. His past does 
not allow him to marry, and prevents him 
from ever being happy. He departs, and 
condemns himself to exile and to living 
separate from his mother, who cannot fol- 
low him ; but Marcelle is sick, and is 
going to die. He is recalled, he returns 
and sees her again. 

He struggles and still struggles. Finally 
Madame Gérard herself tells him to get 
married, and when he wishes to confess 
everything to her who is to become his 
wife, it is his mother who dissuades him, 
for she knows that if Marcelle pardons 
Monsieur De Drives will not, and that he 
will refuse his consent to the marriage 
of his daughter with George Du Hamel, — 
a refusal which will occasion the death 
of two beings created for each other, 
made to love one another, and worthy of 
being happy. 

They would be so still, as they have 
been for two years, if the fatal passion 
of Monsieur De Drives for gambling had 
not put him in relation with Cora, who 
hears speak of the husband of Marcelle, 
desires to see him, and recognizes him as 
the man whom she is still pursuing with 


154 


ARTICLE Jff, 


her vengeance. Madame Gérard explains 
finally to Marcelle how, for several 
months, George is under the domination 
of Cora, and ends thus, — 

“ He was not willing to sink in your 
estimation. Through fear of being ex- 
posed, he has condemned himself to the 
punishment of seeing this woman again, 
and of obeying her caprices ; but you 
cannot suppose him capable of again be- 
coming her lover. That would be a 
shameful and dishonorable act, which he 
has never been and never will be guilty 
of.” 

She had just pronounced these last 
words, when the drawing-room door 
opened and gave entrance to Monseigneur 
X . 

The idea had occurred to George to go 
to him and entreat him to come and plead 
his cause with Marcelle, as he had done 
in court. The testimony of this man of 
superior merit, of this man of seventy 
years, whose reputation for honor was 
known to all men, must make a lively im- 
pression upon the mind of Madame Gérard. 

Monseigneur X desired that the 

confession should be complete, that they 
might no more have to return to it. So he 
gave, in regard to the condemnation of his 
client, all the details which Madame Du 
Hamel had omitted. He was very par- 
ticular, called things by their right name, 
and did not fear to speak of the conse- 
quences of that fatal Article 47 which 
gave George an exceptional position. 

“ Now, madame, you know the whole,” 
said he, in taking leave of Marcelle. 
“There exists no longer any secret be- 
tween your husband and yourself. Noth- 
ing prevents you from being happy with 
the most honorable man of my acquaint- 
ance.” 

Marcelle had listened to Madame Du 

Hamel and Monseigneur X without 

a word of reply. 

She was very pale, but that paleness 
might be attributed to the sharp pains 
she seemed to feel, and which made her 
carry her hand every moment to her heart. 


When Monseigneur X had left, 

she rose from the sofa where she had 
been sitting, silently crossed the room, 
and went up to her chamber. 

George, who kept himself in the library, 
then rejoined his mother and questioned 
her by a look. 

“ I do not know,” said she, “ but I 
hope.” 


It had just struck ten when Marcelle, 
after her conversation with Madame Du 

Hamel and Monseigneur X , went up 

to her chamber. George was walking the 
drawing-room, where he had joined his 
mother, and making her repeat all she 
had said to Marcelle. He wanted to know 
if she had insisted upon different points 
which must have a great importance in 
the eyes of her who was to decide upon 
his fate. He asked her what was the ap- 
pearance of Marcelle in such a circum- 
stance, at such a moment ; if she turned 
pale, if she had shown indignation, if she 
seemed to feel any pity. Like the crimi- 
nal who tries to read in the face of the 
jury or judge the decision they are going 
to pronounce, he endeavored to guess at 
what course Marcelle would adopt after 
the sad revelation that had just been 
made to her. 

“Ahl” said he, “she will not pardon 
me, she cannot pardon me ! The silence 
she maintains is a proof of it. At first, 
still under the impression of the eloquent 
words which your heart dictated, she 
might have allowed herself to be affected 
in my favor. But reason has returned. 
She has forgotten all the circumstances 
which plead in my favor. She sees only 
the brutal fact : my crime, my condem- 
nation, my past life !” 

Time passed on, and Madame Gérard 
was beginning to share the fears of her 
son. When he was in a state of despair 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


155 


she dared not reassure him. She would 
only give him her hand from time to 
time, draw him to her, and press him to 
her heart. 

About two o’clock in the afternoon, 
they thought they heard the sound of 
footsteps on the stairs leading from Mar- 
cello’s chamber to the apartments below. 
They listened. The sound grew nearer. 
The library door opened and then shut. 
Some one was evidently coming towards 
the room where they were. 

Marcelle appeared. 

She stopped, looked at them both, and 
then suddenly extended her arms to 
George. 

He understood her. 

But instead of throwing himself into 
the arms held out in token of mercy, 
he kneeled at her feet, and melting in 
tears, uttered only this word : TlianJcs. 

With one hand she raised him up, and 
extending the other to Madame Gérard, 
who was also on her knees giving thanks 
to God, she drew the mother and son to a 
sofa, sat down between them, and said to 
them, in an excited tone of voice, — 

“ If I have kept you waiting a long 
time, it is because that, in the interest of 
the future, I did not wish to be subject to 
any surprise. I went up to my room and 
repeated to myself alone all that I had 
just heard. I reflected for a long while, 
weighed everything, judged, and I now 
pardon. I am the wife of George Gérard, or 
of George du Hamel, little do I care 
which ! He loves me and I love him. I 
accept all the consequences of his past 
life. I will share his sorrows as well as 
his joys ; and we will remain united till 
death shall separate us.” 

They listened to her religiously, with- 
out venturing to interrupt her. She had 
ceased speaking, and they were still si- 
lent, with their eyes raised towards her, 
contemplating her with admiration 

After a moment she resumed : 

“I am sick, very sick, and have been 
for several days. I have need of air, mo- 
tion, and amusement. I would like to re- 


turn with you two into the country that 
I have loved so much, to our house at 
Baden, on the banks of our dear river 
Limmat. If you consent, we will be en 
route this very day, this evening. By 
yielding to this caprice of a sick woman 
you will render me exceedingly happy.” 

Through delicacy she did not give her 
real motives for wishing to leave Paris 
immediately. She was afraid of some 
surprise on the part of Cora, some new 
treason. 

They understood her, and hastened to 
comply with her desire. 

It was agreed that Dr. Combes should 
be requested to call on Marcelle. Uneasy 
as to the state of her health, he had ad- 
vised her some days before to travel. He 
would, therefore, be not at all surprised 
that she had decided to do so, and would 
take it upon himself to convince Monsieur 
De Drives of the absolute necessity of 
this precipitate departure. 

While Madame Du Hamel and Marcelle 
were hastily preparing for the journey, 
George crossed the court and called on 
the doctor. He was told that he had 
gone out an hour ago with Monsieur De 
Mézin. 

“ Do you know where they have gone?” 
asked George. 

“ I heard them speak,” said the do- 
mestic, “of Neuilly Avenue. It seemed 
to me that he was sent for to see a woman 
attacked with mental alienation.” 

“Ah I” said George, startled by these 
words. 

“ Yes, sir ; it seems that since the morn- 
ing the whole quarter in which this wo- 
man lives has been in a state of revolution 
on 'her account. About six o’clock she 
commenced in her chamber a fearful 
racket and disturbance, by uttering hor- 
rible cries and breaking of the furniture. 
They went for physicians, and the police 
came. As Monsieur De Mézin is one of 
the best friends of this woman, he wished, 
as soon as he became aware of her condi- 
tion, to call in Doctor Combes.” 

George could have no doubt in this 


156 


ARTICLE Jff. 


matter. The question was about Cora. 
What he foresaw had happened. She 
had already frightened him for several 
days. Her conversation was no longer 
merely impassioned, but very extrava- 
gant. Her eyes had a strange expression. 
He had observed in her certain nervous 
convulsions to which persons are subject 
who have a predisposition to insanity. 
The last night had been more agitated 
than all those which had preceded it. 
Her language was incoherent, and her ex- 
citement excessive. 

At one time George thought he would 
not be able to leave her. Delirious and 
half crazy already, she would cling fast 
to his garments, and it was only by dint 
of coolness, by intimidation, so to speak, 
and by his eye directed fiercely and fixedly 
upon her, that he had succeeded in get- 
ting rid of her. 

After he left her the crisis declared it- 
self. Insanity succeeded nervous ex- 
citation. 

Cora might talk now, but no one would 
believe her. Monsieur De Drives would 
never know the past history of George. 
Marcelle would have always been ignorant 
of it if this crisis had occurred one day 
sooner ! And yet George did not regret 
anything. He was happy to think that 
there was no longer any secret between 
his wife and himself, and that she had 
generously and nobly pardoned him. 
His happiness was so complete that he 
did not think of saying to himself, “ I 
am avenged. Because of her, I have for 
five years dragged the ball and chain, and 
worn the livery of a state prisoner. Be- 
cause of me, she will wear the strait-jacket 
of a mad-house.” 

He rejoined his mother and wife, and 
aided them in their preparations for de- 
parture. He rejoiced in the prospect of 
this journey, due to the suggestion of his 
wife, and which was to remove them for 
a long time from the theatre of their 
sufierings. 

About six o’clock Dr. Combes arrived, 
and when he learned the project of his 


neighbors he cheerfully approved of it. 
At the moment of leaving them, he took 
George aside and said to him, — 

“I would not alarm you; but if you 
had not concluded to leave to-day, I should 
have required you to go to-morrow. 
The situation of your wife is a very se- 
rious one. A quiet, happy life may re- 
store her to health, as it has already done. 
But do not forget it, the least trouble or 
emotion might be fatal to her. I owed 
you the truth.” 

“ Be not alarmed, doctor ; my wife shall 
have no more trouble, no violent emotion.” 

At seven o’clock in the evening, at the 
time when Marcelle, Madame Gérard, and 
George, ready to take their carriage, were 
making on the threshold their adieus to 
Monsieur De Drives, two men who had 
just entered the court, after speaking to 
the porter, advanced towards them. 

“Monsieur George Gérard?” said the 
elder of the two men, carrying his hand 
to his hat. 

“ That is my name,” said George, ad- 
vancing. 

“ Then your name is George du Hamel, 
and you are an old galley-slave, en rup- 
ture du han de surveillance. I am bearer 
of a writ which orders me to arrest you, 
which I now do.” 

He had scarcely uttered these words, 
when a loud cry was heard. 

Marcelle had just fainted upon the 
court pavement. 

Doctor Combes, who was at his win- 
dow, to notice the departure of his 
friends and to salute them for the last 
time with his hand, ran up hastily, 
kneeled before Marcelle, and rose a<2:ain, 
almost immediately. 

His skill was of no use. He dis- 
covered that there was a rupture of the 
heart. 

Death had been instantaneous. 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


157 


XXVZZI. 

In ‘ one of his last conversations with 
Cora, \ ictor Mazilier had, it will be re- 
in euibered, formed the project of intro- 
ducing a reform into his life, and of re- 
turning to Havre, to pass some time with 
his father. This project he had put into 
execution ; and ‘he had been absent from 
Paris more than three months, when he 
suddenly had a desire to see his dear bou- 
levards again. He took the railroad, 
stopped at his usual pied à terre., or tem- 
porary lodging, passed the night there, 
and the next day, about ten o’clock in 
the morning, he started for Neuilly Ave- 
nue. He longed to know what had be- 
come of Cora during his absence, and 
whether her little business still pros- 
pered ; if they still gambled and bet high 
in her rooms ; if new faces were seen there, 
and whether she had succeeded in find- 
ing her dear George du Hamel again? He 
had written several times for information 
on these matters, but had received no an- 
swer. “ Undoubtedly,” thought he, “ she 
has a grudge against me because I don’t 
love her any longer. Women are insa- 
tiable.” 

Hardly had he taken a few steps in the 
avenue of Neuilly, when he stopped quite 
astonished. On the streets were to be 
seen groups of from ten to twenty per- 
sons talking with great animation. The 
farther he went the more numerous 
were these groups. In front of Cora’s 
hotel there was a numerous throng. He 
cut through the crowd, reached the gate, 
and was recognized by the porter, who 
hesitated to open ; and rushing to the 
house, he learnt from the domestics what 
was taking place. Cora, since morning, 
by her cries and fits of fury, had been 
keeping the neighborhood in a state of 
revolution. Physicians who had been 
called in had verified her insanity, and 
the police had been informed of the 
affair. 

“ I arrive in a jine time I” said Victor 
to himself. “ If I had known of this, I 


would have remained at Havre. I am 
not fond of such scenes.” 

Such was the first reflection inspired 
by the sad situation of her whom he had 
known for more than ten years. He 
wished to see her, however, through mere 
curiosity. He began, of course, by ask- 
ing if there was any danger in approach- 
ing her I and when he was informed that 
they had been obliged to bind her, he 
ventured to enter her room. The unfor- 
tunate woman did not recognize him. 
She made desperate efibrts to break the 
ties which confined her, and continued to 
utter the most inhuman cries. Victor 
Mazilier looked at her for a few moments, 
and then left the room, muttering, “ She 
is not beautiful in that situation.” This 
second reflection was about equal to the 
first. 

He was about leaving the house which, 
according to his own expression, was far 
from being gay and cheerful, when, on 
passing into the boudoir in front of the 
sleeping-room, he perceived on the man- 
tel-piece the letter which he had written 
to Cora the day before to announce his 
arrival. He took it, put it in his pocket, 
saying to himself, “ I wish I could get 
hold of my other correspondence, for the 
police, which is very inquisitive, will 
be here, and I don’t wish it to know of 
my intimacy with a crazy woman.” 

He knew that Cora used to put her 
correspondence in a little rosewood desk 
in a corner of her boudoir. He opened 
it, and while looking for his letters, he 
saw a large envelope sealed with wax, 
and bearing this superscription : “To the 
Attorney -General, Paris.” 

This was, it will be remembered, the 
exposure written by Cora, several months 
before, for the purpose of frightening 
George, and of inducing him to come 
under her control. Victor, thinking this 
letter might be of some importance, 
called a domestic, confided it to him, and 
told him to hand it to the first police-offi- 
cer he should meet with. After this, 
Victor proceeded to the English coffee- 


158 


ARTICLE Jf7. 


house to breakfast, hoping thereby to 
recover from the various painful emotions 
recently experienced. 

At two o’clock in the afternoon, Cora’s 
letter, sent by express, with a note ap- 
pended, to the bar of the court, was 
opened by a substitute of the attorney- 
general. 

At five o’clock, by virtue of Article 47 
of the Penal Code, an order was issued 
to arrest George du Hamel, alias George 
Gérard. At seven o’clock he was arrested 
in the midst of his family. We have 
already learnt the sad result. 

On seeing his wife fall upon the pave- 
ment, George uttered no cry, for the 
blow was too sudden and unexpected for 
him to suffer from it immediately. Grief 
is the consequence of reflection. He had 
not yet had time for reflection, and was, 
as it were, petrified. 

This seeming indifference, or coldness, 
deceived the police agent. If he had 
thought that she who had just dropped 
dead before him was the wife of George du 
Hamel, he would not have dreamed, for 
a while at least, of performing the duty 
with which he was charged. But he 
thought George indifferent to this death, 
and advanced towards him. The police, 
moreover, are not in the habit of using 
much ceremony or civility in dealing with 
liberated galley-slaves. 

George felt himself suddenly seized by 
the arm ; and thinking they were going 
to hurry him off from the dead body of 
his wife, he turned suddenly round, and 
repelled the policeman with such power 
that he went tumbling away ten paces 
from him on the pavement of the court, 
and his companion, who had advanced in 
his turn, shared the same fate. While 
these two men were trying to get on their 
feet again, George stooped down, took 
Marcelle in his arms, went quickly to the 
house, passed up-stairs, entered her cham- 
ber, laid the body on her bed, locked the 
door, and, after barricading himself as if 
he were resolved to stand a long siege, went 
and kneeled down at the side of her bed. 


These precautions were useless, as the 
police agents found they w^ere not strong 
enough to contend with an advérsary 
such as George. In order to enter his 
house it was necessary, besides, that they 
should be accompanied by a justice; they 
began at the same time to understand 
that they had acted with too much pre- 
cipitancy at the attorney-general’s office. 
They had taken George du Hamel for a 
vulgar malefactor ; but he was a man of 
good society, and a favorite. Already the 
tenants of the establishment, and at their 
head Dr. Combes, were coming up to pro- 
test against the outrage of which he was 
the victim, and against the brutality of 
the agents. They retired, therefore, not 
a little ashamed, in order to confer with 
their immediate chief and make their re- 
port. George passed the night near the 
remains of his wife. He opened his door 
to no one, not even to his mother. 

The next day, after many entreaties, Ma- 
dame Du Hamel and Monseigneur X 

succeeded in entering the chamber. They 
informed George that he had nothing 
more to fear, and that he would not be 
forcibly carried away from the corpse of 
his wife ; that an order had j ust been 
given to suspend the execution of the 
writ issued against him. 

“ They have done wisely,” murmured 
he, “ for they would not have taken me 
alive.” 

“ Then you would have disobeyed Aer,” 
said Madame Du Hamel, pointing to Mar- 
celle. 

“How?” asked George. 

“ Read this letter, which was to be 
given to you if she should die before you, 
and which, at the moment she was about 
to leave, she had confided to her father.” 

He took the letter handed him and 
read : 

“ My adored, George, if I die before 
our arrival at Baden, I wish you to con- 
tinue the journey and bury me in our 
garden on the bank of the river Limmat. 
It is my wish also, when I shall be no 
more, that you may not abandon your- 


THE HIGH POLICE. 


159 


self to despair, but live for your mother, 
whom you ought not to leave alone in the 
world. I write you these words on the 
day of our departure, some hours after 
being informed of all your sufferings; 
and to tell you that I love you as in for- 
mer days, and even more. 

“Farewell, till we meet again above.” 

After reading this letter, he went to 
the bed where Marcelle seemed to him to 
be reposing, kneeled, and said, — 

“ I will obey.” 

Then he asked for flowers to cover the 
bed, gave instructions in regard to the 
casket and the service, and addressing 
himself to Monseigneur X : 

“Shall I be authorized,” said he, “to 
leave France and transfer her body to 
Baden?” 

“ I hope so,” replied the old lawyer. 

“ Go my bail, and promise that I shall 
return. I wish to be judged. I wish you 
to defend me again. I wish to protest 
against this barbarous law which has 
caused the death of Marcelle. She par- 
doned my past life. My arrest was the 
cause of her death.” 

He pressed the hand of his old de- 
fender, and returned to kneel before the 
sainted dead. 


■xxixx:. 

Before what tribunal ought a man to 
be tried who is condemned to surveillance 
and guilty of a rupture of the ban ? One 
of two things : either the accused, or de- 
fendant, denies his identity, or he con- 
fesses it. In the first case, he ought to 
be brought before the tribunal that pro- 
nounced sentence of condemnation to 
surveillance ; in the second case, he ought 
to be prosecuted before the tribunal of 
the place where he was arrested. 

George Gérard, though ready to con- 
fess that he had been condemned to five 


years of hard labor under the name of 
George du Hamel, asked, nevertheless, 
through his counsel, to be judged at 

Rouen ; and Monseigneur X had left 

such favorable impressions in that city, 
that his request was cheerfully granted. 

When the report was made in the 
palace of justice that after a repose of 
several years the old chief of advocates 
would again appear in court, a great ex- 
citement was produced among the young 
lawyers, who had all heard of his great 
oratorical power, but had not had an op- 
portunity to admire it. 

Accordingly arrrangements were made 
among them to meet together on the day 
of his pleading, as people agree to attend 
the theatre when some celebrated star- 
actor is announced to reappear after a 
long absence. 

This was what Monseigneur X de- 

sired, in the interest of his client, and at his 
express request. He knew that the presi- 
dent of the tribunal, through respect for 
his great age and his old reputation, 
would allow him to speak as long as he 
wished, although he might not always 
confine himself to the case, — that he 
would be at liberty to lift to the height 
of a social thesis a very plain and simple 
matter, — that, finally, he would be per- 
mitted to defend not only George du 
Hamel in the crime imputed to him, but 
also to recur to the past, and obtain, if not 
the legal rehabilitation of his client, at 
least his moral re-establishment. 

“ As it has not been possible to keep 
my case secret,” said George to Monseig- 
neur X , “ it now becomes necessary to 

give it the greatest publicity possible. It is 
known in Paris that Monsieur Be Brives 
is the father-in-law of a liberated galley- 
slave. In his interest, in mine, and in 
remembrance of her who is no more, and 
who has borne my name, the public ought 
to learn that the punishment which was 
inflicted upon me was unmerited.” 

On the 3d of June, 1868, the chamber 
of the tribunal at Rouen was besieged at 
early morn. George du Hamel, who had 


160 


ARTICLE Jft, 


returned from Baden the day before, was 
seated on the prisoner’s bench. 

After the usual formalities, Monseig- 
neur X took the floor, and held it for 

more than two hours. 

The impression produced by his plead- 
ing was’ immense. Contrary to all 
usage, he was applauded when he had 
finished ; and the president, sympathiz- 
ing with the general emotion, did not 
think it his duty to remind the public 
of the respect due to the court. 

From all sides, young lawyers, as well 
as the old, magistrates, merchants, and 
fashionable women, advanced to shake 
hands with him. 

With tears in his eyes, and tears in Ms 
voice, he said to them, — 

“ It is not to me that your hands should 
be tendered, but to my client, who has a 
right to the sympathies of honest men.” 

This opinion was respected, and from all 
quarters hands were offered to George. 

The journals which gave an account of 
this trial the next morning, related the 
following incident, which, it is said, made 
a deep impression upon the audience : 
“ An esteemed merchant of Bouen, Mon- 
sieur B , desirous of hearing the great 

advocate X for the last time, was 

present at the trial. Little did he care 
about the prisoner, or the crime of which 
he was accused. It was the eloquent 
lawyer only that interested him. Sud- 
denly, while he listens, he thinks he has 
already heard the name of George du 
Hamel pronounced and certain facts re- 
lated about him. He evokes his recol- 
lections, and remembers that he was fore- 
man of the jury at the time of the first 
trial, to which the distinguished advo- 
cate alluded. His emotion becomes ex- 
treme ; soon he cannot refrain from tears ; 
and when the orator ended his plea and 
took his seat, he rushed towards the pris- 
oner, took him by the hand, and asked his 
pardon for having formerly participated 
in his condemnation.” 

And now it remained for the court to 
apply the law. So long .as Article 47 


shall not have been repealed, it is the 
duty of the court to cause it to be re- 
spected, and to punish those who infringe 
it. 

But we have said, as to the punish- 
ment applicable to the rupture of ban, 
the . law has fixed the maximum of it at 
five years of imprisonment. It follows 
from this that the court can reduce it in- 
definitely. 

The correctional tribunal of Rouen, 
profiting by this latitude, condemned 
George Gérard to one day’s imprison- 
ment. New applause was heard in the 
audience, and the court adjourned. 

George, on leaving the court, went to 
the city prison, where he remained 
twenty-four hours. He was now square 
with society. 

They might, it is true, have obliged 
him to submit now to that surveillance 
from which he had escaped, and have 
assigned to him a provincial town for a 
residence. But the police sometimes 
shows certain indulgences. George asked, 
besides, only one favor, which was, to 
leave France and return no more. It was 
granted him, and he rejoined his mother 
at Baden. 

* ***** 

They bought the small house that Mar- 
celle loved so much, which she could not 
see again, but in which, according to her 
request, she reposes. 

Her tomb is in the lower end of the 
garden, close by the river Limmat. It is 
entirely covered with flowers, which 
George himself cultivates. 

He lives alone with his mother, as he 
lived three years in Léonia Street, until 
the time of his marriage. 

But he does not devote himself any 
longer to study, as formerly. All mental 
labor is forbidden him. He limits him- 
self to talking of her who is no more, 
with her who remains to him. 

His only amusement consists in de- 
scending almost every day, for several 
miles, the impetuous course of the river 
Limmat. 


THE HIGH POLICE, 


161 


His boat is tied to a willow near the 
tomb of Marcelle. He unties the rope, 
lies down in the bottom of his boat, and 
allows himself to be carried down stream 
by the current. This dizzy, vertiginous 
course lasts about two hours. To pro- 
long it would be an attempt at suicide. 
There is a point where the Limmat goes 
rushing furiously against rocks which 
impede its course. Every boat that 
should venture near this place would be 
inevitably dashed to pieces. 

Faithful to his promise to live for his 
mother, George stops some yards from 
this dangerous point. 

But Madame T)u Hamel is getting to be 
an old woman. She will soon leave her 
son alone in the world. Then he will 


bury her near Marcelle, jump into his 
boat, as before, follow the current, and 
gladly dash in pieces against the rocks, 
which he avoided while his mother was 
living. 

* * * * * * 

Our most celebrated physicians have 
pronounced Cora incurable. She has be- 
come furiously and hopelessly insane. 
After remaining for some time in the 
house of Doctor Blanche, she is now at 
Charenton, which she will probably never 
leave. 

Victor Mazilier has just married the 
daughter of a ship-owner of Havre. 

Monsieur De Drives is completely 
ruined, but keeps on gambling. 



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